Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3810/At the Tower
Upon the old black guns The old black raven hops; We gave him bits of buns And cakes and acid-drops; He's wise, and his way's devout, But he croaks and he flaps his wings (And the flood runs out and the sergeants shout) For the first and the last of things; He croaks to Robinson, Brown, and Jones, The song of the ravens, "Dead Men's Bones!"
For into the lifting dark And a drizzle of clearing rain, His sire flapped out of the Ark And never came back again; So I always fancy that, Ere the frail lost blue showed thin, Alone he sat upon Ararat To see a new world in, And yelped to the void from a cairn of stones The song of the ravens, "Dead Men's Bones!"
When the last of mankind lie slain On Armageddon's field, When the last red west has ta'en The last day's flaming shield, There shall sit when time shadows run (D'you doubt, good Sirs, d'you doubt?) His last rogue son on an empty gun To see an old world out; And he'll croak (as to Robinson, Brown and Jones) The song of the ravens, "Dead Men's' Bones!"