THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPER.
NOT a knell was heard, not a requiem note,
As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried;
Not a mourner had donned his sable coat,
By the grave where our pauper we buried.
We buried him quickly at shut of night,
The sods with our keen shovels turning;
By the closing day's last glimmering light,
And the lantern palely burning.
No oaken coffin enclosed his breast,
In a sheet for a shroud we wound him:
And he lay as a pauper should, taking his rest,
With his four deal planks nailed around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we shed not a tear of sorrow;
But we carelessly looked on the face of the dead,
And we heedlessly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down its green turf billow;
That haply a stranger would lay a wan head
To-night on his tenantless pillow.
Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone
At the "House," and maybe they'll upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where his parish has laid him.
But half of our thankless job was done,
When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring;
And the raindrops came pattering one by one,
And soon all the heavens were pouring.
Swiftly and smoothly we sodded him down,
In his last bed of shame, gaunt and hoary;
We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone,
But we left him to earth with his story.
SEFTON.
"These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men."—Vide Sir Wilfrid Lawson's Speech.
NOT a snore was heard, not a slumberous note,
For my Lords are too awfully worried;
Not a Peer but bewails the Bill's sad lot,
Tho' he feels that it musn't be hurried.
They think of it sadly, at dead of night,
The thing in their mind's eye turning,
By the somewhat foggy, misty light
In their noble bosoms burning.
No useless logic confused their heads,
'Tis but little they ever heed it;
But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds,
And one and all they d——d it.
"Few and short were the prayers they said"—
The fact I record with sorrow;
They thought of the day when the Bill would be read,
And they wished there were no to-morrow.
They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said—
Each word was a thorn in their pillow—
Of laurels that still would encircle his head,
While they would be wearing the willow.
Nightly they burn for their brothers to be
Enfranchised, as they would have made 'em;
And little they'll reck, till the "rustic" be free,
Of how a cold world may upbraid 'em.
But half of the weary night was gone,
And my Lords were still busy enquiring,
"The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done?
And they found that the effort was tiring.
Slowly and sadly they laid them down,
And they murmured the old, old story,
"We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we MUST have a share in the glory!"
DARBY.
A MEMBER OF A DEFEATED CRICKET ELEVEN loq.
NOT a ball was missed, not a catch uncaught,
As the course 'tween the wickets we scurried;
Not a fielder but was a famous shot,
At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried,
We slogged the ball wildly with all our might,
The sods with our willow-bats turning:
But the leather was caught, and held so tight,
And our cheeks with shame were burning.
No useless figures my scoring blest,
Not in cut or in drive I found them;
But they lay like the egg of the duck in a nest,
With a line drawn all around them.
Few, too few, were the runs we could claim,
And we spoke many words of sorrow,
And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game,
As we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we watched how our wickets fell,
And reckoned the meagre scoring,
That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well,
And we, far behind them, deploring.
Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on,
And o'er a cold luncheon upbraid us;
But little we'd reck if bad weather came on,
And the rain further playing forbade us.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for refraining;
And we saw by the distant and setting sun,
That the light was steadily waning.
Slowly and sadly did we disappear,
From the field of our shame-laden story;
We gave not a groan, we raised not a cheer,
But we left them alone to their glory.
FRIAR TUCK.
The above are from Truth, August 7, 1884.