Aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th fray,
Whear bullets thickest shower;
Nor trust a mean, black hearted man,
At's th' luck to be i' power.

A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim;
Bullets may pass yo harmless by,
An' leave all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An' spare yo when they've past;
Yo' may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Make poverty yo'r friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,
Noa mortal can contend.

Ther's malice in his kindest smile,
His proffered hand's a snare;
He's plannin deepest villany,
When seemingly mooast fair;
He leads yo' on wi' oily tongue,
Swears he's yo're fastest friend.
He get's yo' once within his coils,
An' crushes yo' ith' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin' aat,
An' seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint, compared to some,
'At's th' luk to be i' power.