Marshall the hearse to the holy ground.
Eight stout men the coffin bear—
What a creak is here! what a groan is there!
As the marching corps toil through the church door—
For the rich dead must be buried in lead;
Their pamper'd forms are too good for the worms!
They cheat in dust, as they cheated before.
Mumbles the parson, and mumbles the clerk,
Prayer, response,
All for the nonce!