But peace to his bones
Which in ashes now moulder.
Had he lived a day longer
He'd have been a day older.
_Anonymous_
_A CHRONICLE_
Once--but no matter when--
There lived--no matter where--
A man, whose name--but then
I need not that declare.
He--well, he had been born,
And so he was alive;
His age--I details scorn--
Was somethingty and five.
He lived--how many years
I truly can't decide;
But this one fact appears
He lived--until he died.
"He died," I have averred,
But cannot prove 't was so,
But that he was interred,
At any rate, I know.
I fancy he'd a son,
I hear he had a wife:
Perhaps he'd more than one,
I know not, on my life!
But whether he was rich,
Or whether he was poor,
Or neither--both--or which,
I cannot say, I'm sure.
I can't recall his name,
Or what he used to do:
But then--well, such is fame!
'T will so serve me and you.
And that is why I thus,
About this unknown man
Would fain create a fuss,
To rescue, if I can.
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