Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell,
As its corpse from the hustings we hurried;
But we felt more anxious than tongue can tell
To get the thing decently buried.
With a woodcutter's help we dug it a grave—
(It was deep and contained some water)—
All willingly helped, and the sexton gave
An address on its deeds of slaughter.
With a "brilliant" lie we bedecked its breast,
In a "cloak of deceit" we wound it,