Where the tombstones are placed In the very _best taste_, At the feet and the head Of the elegant Dead, And no one's received who's not "buried in lead:" For, there lie the bones of Deputy Jones, Whom the widow's tears, and the orphan's groans Affected as much as they do the stones His executors laid on the Deputy's bones; Little rest, poor knave! Would Tray have in his grave; Since Spirits, 'tis plain, Are sent back again, To roam round their bodies,--the bad ones in pain,-- Dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack-chain; Whenever they met, alarm'd by its groans, his Ghost all night long would be barking at Jones's. Nor shall he be laid By that cross Old Maid, Miss Penelope Bird,--of whom it is said All the dogs in the parish were ever afraid. He must not be placed By one so strait-laced In her temper, her taste, and her morals, and waist. For, 'tis said, when she went up to Heaven, and St. Peter, Who happened to meet her, Came forward to greet her, She pursed up with scorn every vinegar feature, And bade him "Get out for a horrid Male Creature!" So, the Saint, after looking as if he could eat her, Not knowing, perhaps, very well how to treat her, And not being willing,--or able,--to beat her, Sent her back to her grave till her temper grew sweeter, With an epithet--which I decline to repeat here. No,--if Tray were interr'd By Penelope Bird, No dog would be e'er so be "whelp"'d and be-"cur"r'd-- All the night long her cantankerous Sprite Would be running about in the pale moon-light, Chasing him round, and attempting to lick The ghost of poor Tray with the ghost of a stick. Stay!--let me see!-- Ay--here it shall be At the root of this gnarled and time-worn tree, Where Tray and I Would often lie, And watch the bright clouds as they floated by In the broad expanse of the clear blue sky, When the sun was bidding the world good b'ye; And the plaintive Nightingale, warbling nigh, Pour'd forth her mournful melody; While the tender Wood-pigeon's cooing cry Has made me say to myself, with a sigh, "How nice you would eat with a steak in a pie!" Ay, here it shall be!--far, far from the view Of the noisy world and its maddening crew. Simple and few, Tender and true The lines o'er his grave.--They have, some of them, too, The advantage of being remarkably new. _Epitaph._ Affliction sore Long time he bore, Physicians were in vain!-- Grown blind, alas! he'd Some Prussic Acid, And that put him out of his pain! * * * * * NOTE, PAGE 71.