by Anne Whitney
As pleasant a man as you would see,
Native or foreign, to vouch I dare;
His laugh was hoarse but full of glee,
Indifferent when or where.
But most in graves the old man kept
His singular jubilee;
He roared at what most others wept;
His life was a funeral glee.
He had no rival in his trade:
He knew, one after another,
All the village would need his axe and spade,
And troubled himself no further.
His love and duty were never at strife --
His charity looked to all;
He seemed to think his lease on life
Long as death held carnival.
Well, 'tis nature's creed
And man's chief want -- is burial.
The friend of the world in its sorest need,
Could the world then spare him well?
346 & 348 Broadway
D. Appleton & Company