MAN goes his way, and cuts a narrow swath; day after day, we see him in the broth. He cuts no ice, displays no wondrous worth, gets married twice, at last falls off the earth. And when he dies, to Mother Earth goes back, with streaming eyes we drape ourselves in black. We sighing stand around his sombre pall, and hire a band to play the march from "Saul." His kindred wail, "All pomp he's been denied, but now the tail must travel with the hide. We'll do things right, regardless of expense, now this poor wight has up and journeyed hence. We'll go in debt, to give this orgy class, hire steeds of jet, their harness decked with brass, the smoothest hearse to haul the honored gent, a boosting verse upon his monument." The dead man sleeps, as kindly Nature wills; the widow weeps, and slaves to pay the bills. She bends her shape o'er tubs of steaming clothes, to pay for crape and sable furbelows. She's in a swamp of trouble, deep and wide, to pay for pomp and fuss and foolish pride. |