Saw the shroud and saw the coffin;
Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in;
This little noble-hearted ruffin,
At the wake each night went he:
Sabbath morning he was ready,
Warn’d the bearers to be steady,
Taking Peter to his Biddy,
And a tear stood in his e’e.
Onward as the corpse was passing,
Ere the priest gave his last blessing,
Through the dingy crowd came pressing,
The father and the brothers three:
’Tis our mother—we will greet her;
How is this that here we meet her?
And without our little Peter,
Who will solve this mystery?
The Aram-Skaram interfered,
Soon this corpse will be interred,
Come with us and see it burried,
Out in yonder cemetery:
Soon they knew the worst, and pondered
Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;—
And returning home, they wondered
Who their little friend could be!
Turning round to him they bowed,
Much they thanked him, much they owed;
While the tears each cheek bedewed,
Wisht him all prosperity:
“Never mind,” he said, “my brothers,
What I have done, do ye to others;
We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,”
Said the little Bisey Bee.
Behold How the Rivers!
Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea,
Sending their treasures so careless and free;
And to give their assistance each Spring doth arise,
Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.
Find out the haunts o’ the low human pest,
Give to the weary, the poor, and distressed;
What if unthankful and thankless they be,
Think of the giver that gave unto thee.
Go travel the long lanes on misery’s virge,
Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge;
Where want and famine, and by ourselves made,
Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.
Give to yon widow—thy gift is thrice blest,
For tho’ she be silent, the harder she’s pressed;
A small bit o’ help to the little she earns,
God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.
’Neath the green grassy mounds o’ yon little church yard,
An over-wrought genius there finds his reward;
And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee,
Such are the givers that give unto me.