On
the Death of a Late FAMOUS GENERAL
HIS
Grace! impossible! what dead!
Of
old age, too, and in his bed!
And
could that Mighty Warrior fall?
And
so inglorious, after all!
Well,
since he's gone, no matter how,
The
last loud trump must wake him now:
And,
trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd
wish to sleep a little longer.
And
could he be indeed so old
As
by the news-papers we're told?
Threescore,
I think, is pretty high;
'Twas
time in conscience he should die.
This
world he cumber'd long enough;
He
burnt his candle to the snuff;
And
that's the reason, some folks think,
He
left behind so great a stink.
Behold
his funeral appears,
Nor
widow's sighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont
at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend
the progress of his hearse.
But
what of that, his friends may say,
He
had those honours in his day.
True
to his profit and his pride,
He
made them weep before he dy'd.
Come
hither, all ye empty things,
Ye
bubbles rais'd by breath of Kings;
Who
float upon the tide of state,
Come
hither, and behold your fate.
Let
pride be taught by this rebuke,
How
very mean a thing's a Duke;
From
all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd
to that dirt from whence he sprung.