A FUNERAL REFORMER’S LAST REQUEST.

Western Star, Issue 52, 7 November 1874, Page 6

A FUNERAL REFORMER’S LAST REQUEST.

Draw. near to my couch, dear friends, I feel we soon must part ; Tho clock of life will shortly strike. Its last stroke on my heart. Tho hour hand points kvSha lowland, And I ivust meet the. test, Before I go, my loving friends, Pray hear my last request. When have, kicked the bucket, (Excuse the classic phrase), I charge you not to bury me In those old-fashioned ways. In which our father’s last remains. Were carried to the tomb ; For though I will be sleeping sound, I want no nodding plume. I charge you not to advertise When I have cocked my toes; When I am mute do not re-hearse Those vulgar-looking shows. Barbaric relics of the past, My feelings they ap -pall, Although I’ve got a cough j ia short* Don’t coffin me at -all. In cloudy ages long ago, When Superstition’s night Clogged up, progression's crystal wheals! And blocked the path of light. The corses of the mighty ones '•. Were decked in pomp and pride. And monuments of gratitude Were raised when heroes died. The great, and good, and noble, then,. Were honoured in tho r 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 genius never- dies, Great time stones of antiquity That toll of epochs fled, Art raised her grandest canopies. In memory of the, dpadi. Those barb'rous times- are. 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 decked : ’Tis sad to find that senseless clay Should 1 claim such deep respect. Utilitarian notions.now Are spreading near and far; I’d die content were I to be Cremated in a jar, And labelled thus— Pulv. Corpus Mort. It may not be, alas, I think if I were utilised, I’d make some splendid gas. Como close my friends, and closer still, My pulse is getting low ; Again I charge you solemnly." To hear me ere I go y. Hark! listen to that tinkling bell, Tis coming, I must cease;. t Just fling me in the dust-cart, mWtfs, And I shall rest in peace. Thomas Bbacok. —Dunedin Star.,