“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sands
Run out? the stoutest never stands
A chance with me,—to my commands
The strongest truckles;
But I’m your friend—so let’s shake hands,
I should say—knuckles.”
Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightly
And meaning nothing but uprightly,
Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,
His mull did proffer:
But Death, who had no nose, politely
Declin’d the offer.
Then sitting down upon a bank,
Leg over leg, shank over shank,
Like friends for conversation frank,
That had no check on:
Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,
“You’re Death, I reckon.”
The Jaw-bone grinn’d:—“I am that same,
You’ve hit exactly on my name;
In truth it has some little fame
Where burial sod is.”
Quoth Jack (and wink’d), “of course ye came
Here after bodies.”
Death grinn’d again and shook his head:—
“I’ve little business with the dead;
When they are fairly sent to bed
I’ve done my turn:
Whether or not the worms are fed
Is your concern.
“My errand here, in meeting you,
Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’
I’ve done what jobs I had—a few
Along this way;
If I can serve a crony too,
I beg you’ll say.”
Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind:
And now I call the thing to mind,
This parish very strict I find;
But in the next ‘un
There lives a very well-inclined
Old sort of sexton.”
Death took the hint, and gave a wink
As well as eyelet holes can blink;
Then stretching out his arm to link
The other’s arm,—
“Suppose,” says he, “we have a drink
Of something warm.”
Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease
Spoke up at once:—“Why, what ye please,
Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,
A famous tap.”
But this suggestion seem’d to tease
The bony chap.
“No, no—your mortal drinks are heady,
And only make my hand unsteady;
I do not even care for Deady,
And loathe your rum;
But I’ve some glorious brewage ready,
My drink is—Mum!”