Original Poetry.

Evening Star, Issue 3648, 31 October 1874, Page 3

Original Poetry.

A FUNERAL REFORMER’S LAST REQUEST. Draw nearer to my couch, dear friends, I feel we soon must part ; The clock of life will shortly strike Its last stroke on my heart. The hour hand points to Shadowland, And I must meet the test, Before I go, my loving friends, Pray hear my last request. When I have kicked the bucket, friends (Excuse the classic phrase), I charge you not to bury me In those old-fashioned ways In which our fathers’ last remains Were carried to the tomb ; For though I will fie sleeping sound, I want no nodding plume. I charge you not to advertise When I hare cocked my toes; When I am mute do not re heume Those vulgar-looking shows. Bar baric relics of the past, My feelings they ap -pall. Although Iv’e got a cough, in short Don’t cojjin me aX-all.

In cloudy ages long ago, When Superstition’s night Clogged up Progression’s crystal wheels, And blocked the path of light, The corses of the mighty ones Were decked in pomp and pride, And monuments of gratitude Were raised whea heroes died.

The great and good and noble, then, Were honored in their dust, By many a costly monument And many a marble bust. Unselfish tributes of the heart, But, friends, as we advance. We pity such stupidity And slavish ignorance. The pyramids of Egypt in Their solemn grandeur rise, Proud sentinels which tell us that True gsnius never dies. Great time-stones of antiquity That tell of epochs fled, Art raised her grandest canopies In memory of the dead.

Those barb’rous times ar® vanished long, And yet I grieve to say That even now, some foolish folk, When friends have passed away, March after poor mortality With crape and feathers d«ck®d ; * Tis sad t® find that senseless clay Should claim such deep respect.

Utilitarian notions now Ar® spreading near and far ; I’d dip content were I to bo Cremated in a jar, And labelled thus— Pulv. Corims Mart. It may not be, alas, I think, if I were utilised, I’d make some splendid gas. Come close my friends, and closer still, My pulse is getting low ; Again I charge you solemnly To hear me ere I go : Hark ! listen to that tinkling bell, ’ Tis coming, I must cease ; Just fling me in the dust-cart, friends, And I shall rest in peace. Thomas Bracken.