He died upon a washing-day!
Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if "to wet a widows' cheek,"
And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy—
'Twas nothing but a make-believe,
She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And yet she often seemed to raise
A cambric kerchief to her eye—
A duster ought to be the phrase,