They'd look at your cold remains before
They followed you down to the ferry,
And the coaches standing at the door
Would go to the cemetery.
But you, if I was once in the box,
(I wonder her lips don't blister!)
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at—
You'd marry your widdy's sister!
When you was under the sod I'd sigh,
And—if I could do without you—
Mebbe I've a strapping lad in my eye
Would come here and talk about you.
A little courtin' would be divertin',
A kind voice whispering "Biddy!"
And a kiss on the sly—for what's the hurt in
A man consoling a widdy?
But you, before I was dead at all,
(Now don't deny that you kissed her!)
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at—
You'd marry your widdy's sister!
R. H. Stoddard.
ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.
"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey—
Massa won't be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.
"Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I've loved so long and well,
I shall listen to their music,
Dreaming that again I see
Stars and strips on sloop and shallop
Sailing up the Tennessee;
