NE widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh! If two should meet on such a job, They'll have a gossip by and by. If three should come together-why, Three widows are good company! If four should meet by any chance, Four is a number very nice,
To have a rubber in a trice
But five will up and have a dance!
Declare her name?-her name was Cross) Was one of those the "common lot"
"( no common loss;
For she had lately buried then
A man, the very best of men,"
A lingering truth, discover'd first
Whenever men 66 are at the worst."
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep-
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did not weep:
In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect "veil of tears."
Though ever since she lost "her prop
And stay,"-alas! he wouldn't stay-
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop
From Passion's eye, as Moore would say ;
Because, when Mister Cross took flight,
It look'd so very like a spite-
He died upon a washing-day!
Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if "to wet a widow's cheek,"
And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy,'Twas nothing but a make-believe,
She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And yet she often seem'd to raise
A cambric kerchief to her eye-
A duster ought to be the phrase,
Its work was all so very dry.
To have a rubber in a trice
But five will up and have a dance!
Poor Mrs C (why should I not
Declare her name?-her name was Cross)
Was one of those the "common lot "
Had left to weep
no common loss;
For she had lately buried then
A man, the " very best of men,"
A lingering truth, discover'd first
Whenever men 66 are at the worst."
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep-
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did not weep:
In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect "veil of tears."
Though ever since she lost "her
And stay,"-alas! he wouldn't stay-
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop
The springs were lock'd that ought to flow-
In England or in widow-woman—
As those that watch the weather know,
Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.
But why did Widow Cross take pains
To call upon the "dear remains,"
Remains that could not tell a jot
Whether she ever wept or not,
Or how his relict took her losses?
Oh! my black ink turns red for shame-
But still the naughty world must learn,
There was a little German came
To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn,"
At the next grave to Mr Cross's!
For there an angel's virtues slept,
"Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!"
But still her painted face he kept,
"Encompass'd in an angel's frame."
He look'd quite sad and quite deprived,
His head was nothing but a hat-band ;
He look'd so lone, and so unwived,
That soon the Widow Cross contrived
To fall in love with even that band;
And all at once the brackish juices
Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices--
Tear after tear too fast to wipe,
Tho' sopp'd, and sopp'd, and sopp'd again-
No leak in sorrow's private pipe,
But like a bursting on the main !
Whoe'er has watch'd the window-pane-
I mean to say in showery weather-
Has seen two little drops of rain,
Like lovers very fond and fain,
At one another creeping, creeping,
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