The Death of the Rev. Melchizedec Jones

My readers will hear, with mournful groans, Of the death of the Rev. Melchizedec Jones. This gentleman, famed for learning and piety, Belong'd to the Teetotal Mission Society, And for the last twelve years, or more, Laboured with zeal at Arrackpore. I may also add that, with lonely moans, Ten children mourn the defunct Mr. Jones: Indeed their sorrow passes description, And really demands a handsome subscription.

'Twas half past six last Tuesday eve When Mr. Jones of his Station took his leave. He travelled per cart—his usual plan— With a lantern-bearer and handyman. As the road was smooth, and uncommonly sandy, Mr. Jones fell fast asleep in his bandy. The bandyman snoozed. And alas! no stones Gave a warning jolt to him or to Jones. Now came the critical moment, in which The lantern went out, as they near'd a ditch,— A slushy, prodigious, hideous pit With no end of black mud at the bottom of it! (Over which a bridge, as might be expected, The D. P. W. had not erected!) A roll—then a rattle—then Jones cried out "stop!" Then the bandy and bullocks went clean over—plop!

Alas, I omitted to mention before What sort of luggage the bandy bore, How under his mattrass poor Jones had packed Many a book and many a tract. For Jones was wont, where'er he might go, To be a sort of travelling Depôt. There were pamphlets in English,—heap on heap, Badly printed, but very cheap. There were newspapers, too, for mild Hindoos With everything in them, excepting news. There were bundles and bundles, and layers and layers, Of very wise sayings by very wise sayers. Tracts in Canarese, tracts in Tamil, Enough to have broken the back of a camel. It would have been lucky for Jones that night If only this literature had been light; Or if only he had omitted to place Under his pillow his travelling case. For now his bandy, ah woe is me! Had fallen with its roof where its wheels ought to be: And thus it was not a very great wonder That his luggage was up, and poor Jones was under. Pray what could the Reverend gentleman do? The deep black mud was as sticky as glue. There was mud at his night-cap, and mud at his socks, On his back were his books, on his head was his box. In the ditch the bandyman struggled and splutter'd, But not a word the poor gentleman utter'd: But, imbedded in mud some three feet deep, Calmly and quietly went to sleep. The handyman then with care unpacked Book and newspaper, pamphlet and tract; And found——if he could, he would have turned pale— His good old master as dead as a nail!

So died Mr. Jones. Oh! D. P. W. Have you no conscience, or doesn't it trouble you? Are your funds all expended, or do you not care That the roads are shockingly bad everywhere? Here on the stones we rattle our bones, There meet with great pits, such as did for poor Jones. Well, shall I say more? Shall my verse repeat Some truths which I know are too true to be sweet? Your healths, good sirs,—R. E.'s and O. E.'s! You are mighty hands at spending rupees! You build fine bridges, you spend many a lac, And for zeal and discretion get clapped on the back; Till down roll the rivers in flood some day, And sweep your gingerbread structures away. Then come explanations. It is easy, you know, To say this, or that arch, was too narrow or low. That a flaw was here, or a fault was there, Or the mortar was somehow not mixed with care, Or that some unaccountable swirl of the tide Did this, when it should have done something beside. Oh Sirs, you are wise! But wondrous to say Your wisdom comes always too late in the day. Here in India, forsooth! our barracks must crumble, Embankments give way, and light-houses tumble. In another clime they have bridged the pride Of ice-charg'd St. Lawrence's terrible tide! They curb the sea in Holland, but here A tank is too strong for our Engineer! Then hail, merry gentlemen, R. and C. E.'s! Spend on the generous Public's rupees! May you ne'er meet some end, like that, by which The light of Jones was snuff'd out in a ditch!