Two mourning staffs stood sentry at the door;
And silence reigned, who ne’er was there before.
The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs prepared,
They marched in woeful pomp to Abchurch Yard;
When see of narrow streets what mischiefs come!
The very dead can’t pass in quiet home:
By some rude jolt, the coffin lid was broke,
And madam from her dream of death awoke.
Now all was spoiled: the undertaker’s pay,
Sour faces, cakes, and wine, quite thrown away.