The munition maker

I am the cannon king, behold!
i perish on a throne of gold.
with forest far and turret high,
renowned and rajah-rich am i.
my father was and his before,
with wealth we owe to war on war;
but let no potentate be proud...
there are no pockets in a shroud.
By nature i am mild and kind,
to gentleness and ruth inclined;
and though the pheasants over-run
my woods, i will not touch a gun.
yet while each monster that i forge
thunders destruction from its gorge.
death's whisper is, i vow, more loud...
there are no pockets in a shroud.
My time is short, my ships at sea
already seem like ghosts to me
my millions mock me, i am poor
as any beggar at my door.
my vast dominion i resign,
six feet of earth to claim as mine,
brooding with shoulders bid bitter-bowed
...there are no pockets in a shroud.
Dear god, let me purge pure my heart,
and be of heaven's hope a part!
flinging my fortune's foul increase
to fight for pity, love and peace.
oh that i could with healing fare,
and pledged to poverty and prayer
cry high above the cringing crowd...
"ye fools! be not by mammon cowed...
there are no pockets in a shroud."