NOT a mute one word at the funeral spoke
Till away to the pot-house we hurried,
Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke
O'er the grave where our "party" we buried.
We buried him dearly with vain display,
Two hundred per cent. returning,
Which we made the struggling orphans pay,
All consideration spurning.
With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest,
Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him;