ODE to the procession, at the end of the third act

Hark! the bell, with doleful hum, To the lagging corse cries come. To the lagging corse the bell, Sounds, with doleful hum, this knell. CABBAGINO, come away! Hasten to thy kindred day! To thy kindred day, O haste! Faster yet, and yet more fast; To thy kindred day, O come! Sounds the bell with doleful bum."

When law had hemm'd on death, his foll'wer, To take our master by the collar, We press'd him, with our low beseeches, To pocket up all former breaches, Nor sit in's skirts with such fell strife, To prick him off the list of life. As buckram stiff, the cross-grain'd glutton, Regarding not our suit a button; Replies, give o'er your sleeveless whining. I'll have the body, hell the lining; Then singeing hot pluck'd out his shears, Cut off the remnant of his years.

Mourn, ye beaus, with drooping head; Mourn, your second maker dead. When nature botch'd the human shape, And 'stead of man produc'd an ape, Our sage's art repair'd the slaw, And from an ape a beau could draw.

Mourn, ye beaus, with drooping head; Mourn, your second maker dead.

Hark! the bell, with doleful hum, Cries, O CABBAGINO! come. CABBAGINO, come away! Hasten to thy kindred clay! Hasten to thy kindred tomb! CABBAGINO! come, come, come.