When he died the people weeping, (For they thought him only sleeping) Cried: "Although he now is quiet And his tongue is not a riot, Soon, the spell that binds him breaking, He a motion will be making.
Then, alas, he'll rise and speak In support of it a week."
Rash mortal! stay thy feet and look around-- This vacant tomb as yet is holy ground; But soon, alas! Jim Fair will occupy These premises--then, holiness, good-bye!
Here Salomon's body reposes; Bring roses, ye rebels, bring roses.
Set all of your drumsticks a-rolling, Discretion and Valor extrolling: Discretion--he always retreated-- And Valor--the dead he defeated.
Brings roses, ye loyal, bring roses: As patriot here he re-poses.
When Waterman ended his bright career He left his wet name to history here.
To carry it with him he did not care: 'Twould tantalize spirits of statesmen There.
Here lie the remains of Fred Emerson Brooks, A poet, as every one knew by his looks Who hadn't unluckily met with his books.
On civic occasions he sprang to the fore With poems consisting of stanzas three score.
The men whom they deafened enjoyed them the more.
Of reason his fantasy knew not the check: All forms of inharmony came at his beck.
The weight of his ignorance fractured his neck.
In this peaceful spot, so the grave-diggers say, With pen, ink and paper they laid him away-- The Poet-elect of the Judgment Day.
George Perry here lies stiff and stark, With stone at foot and stone at head.
His heart was dark, his mind was dark-- "Ignorant ass!" the people said.
Not ignorant but skilled, alas, In all the secrets of his trade: He knew more ways to be an ass Than any ass that ever brayed.
Here lies the last of Deacon Fitch, Whose business was to melt the pitch.
Convenient to this sacred spot Lies Sammy, who applied it, hot.
'Tis hard--so much alike they smell--
One's grave from t'other's grave to tell, But when his tomb the Deacon's burst (Of two he'll always be the first) He'll see by studying the stones That he's obtained his proper bones, Then, seeking Sammy's vault, unlock it, And put that person in his pocket.
Beneath this stone O'Donnell's tongue's at rest-- Our noses by his spirit still addressed.
Living or dead, he's equally Satanic-- His noise a terror and his smell a panic.
When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast And swears that Time's forever past, Days, weeks, months, years all one at last, Then Asa Fiske, laid here, distressed, Will beat (and skin his hand) his breast: There'll be no rate of interest!
Step lightly, stranger: here Jerome B. Cox Is for the second time in a bad box.
He killed a man--the labor party rose And showed him by its love how killing goes.
When Vrooman here lay down to sleep, The other dead awoke to weep.
"Since he no longer lives," they said "Small honor comes of being dead."
Here Porter Ashe is laid to rest Green grows the grass upon his breast.
This patron of the turf, I vow, Ne'er served it half so well as now.
Like a cold fish escaping from its tank, Hence fled the soul of Joe Russel, crank.
He cried: "Cold water!" roaring like a beast.
'Twas thrown upon him and the music ceased.
Here Estee rests. He shook a basket, When, like a jewel from its casket, Fell Felton out. Said Estee, shouting With mirth; "I've given you an outing."
Then told him to go back. He wouldn't.
Then tried to _put_ him back. He couldn't.
So Estee died (his blood congealing In Felton's growing shadow) squealing.
Mourn here for one Bruner, called Elwood.
He doesn't--he never did--smell good To noses of critics and scholars.
If now he'd an office to sell could He sell it? O, no--where (in Hell) could He find a cool four hundred dollars?
Here Stanford lies, who thought it odd That he should go to meet his God.
He looked, until his eyes grew dim, For God to hasten to meet him.