Foster the tinker slept that night
On a feather tick that was three feet thick,
And Keazle attended in calm delight
To warm the bed with a nice hot brick.
And the tinker sat at the breakfast board
And blandly smiled and ate and ate,
Then piled on his back his motley hoard
And took his stand at the front yard gate.
He said, “I’ll give ye the other half
Of that strictly fust-class epitaph.”