Privation

With her grief the widow was so engrossed As she rode at the hearse’s rear, That I really think the dead man’s ghost Must have shed the ghost of a tear.

She murmured and moaned and wiped her eyes And blew her pale nose for relief, Then started and cried, as in pained surprise, “I’ve forgotten my handkerchief!

“O, what shall I do when we get to the grave And the coffin is put in the ground? I know I shall weep, for I cannot be brave With those staring people all round.”

“Be calm,” said one; “there is nothing forgot, For your handkerchief you bring— You are holding it—see.” Said the widow: “What! This pokey old linen thing?”