That reminds me of another coffin story.
A man who lived in Cork was notorious for being always behind time for everything. He knew his failing, and was rather touchy about it.
One night, stumbling out of a whisky shop, he lurched into a yard, fell against a door, which gave way, and finished his slumbers peacefully in the shed, which was the storehouse of an undertaker.
In the morning he awoke, rubbed his eyes in astonishment at the strange surroundings amid which he found himself, and after recollecting his own pet proclivity, as he ruefully surveyed all the empty coffins, ejaculated:—
'Just my usual luck. Late for the Resurrection.'
Which recalls another tale:—
A man was dead drunk, so some friends, for a lark, brought him into a dark room, lit a lot of phosphorus, and made up one of their party in the guise of a devil before they flung a bucket of water over their victim.
'Where am I?' asked the fellow, looking round 'skeered.'
'In hell,' retorted the devil, with exaggerated solemnity.
'Heaven bless your honour, as you know the ways of the place, will you get me a drop of drink?'