Epitaph on George Francis Train(Inscribed on a Pork-barrel.)Beneath this casket rots unknownA Thing that merits not a stone,Save that by passing urchin cast;Whose fame and virtues we expressBy transient urn of emptiness,With apt inscription (to its pastRelating—and to his): “Prime Mess.”No honour had this infidel,That doth not appertain, as well,To haltered caitiff on the drop;No wit that would not likewise passFor wisdom in the famished assWho breaks his neck a weed to crop,When tethered in the luscious grass.And now, thank God, his hateful nameShall never rescued be from shame,Though seas of venal ink be shed;No sophistry shall reconcileWith sympathy for Erin’s Isle,Or sorrow for her patriot dead,The weeping of this crocodile.Life’s incongruity is past,And dirt to dirt is seen at last,The worm of worm afoul doth fall.The sexton tolls his solemn bellFor scoundrel dead and gone to—well,It matters not, it can’t recallThis convict from his final cell.
(Inscribed on a Pork-barrel.)
Beneath this casket rots unknownA Thing that merits not a stone,Save that by passing urchin cast;Whose fame and virtues we expressBy transient urn of emptiness,With apt inscription (to its pastRelating—and to his): “Prime Mess.”No honour had this infidel,That doth not appertain, as well,To haltered caitiff on the drop;No wit that would not likewise passFor wisdom in the famished assWho breaks his neck a weed to crop,When tethered in the luscious grass.And now, thank God, his hateful nameShall never rescued be from shame,Though seas of venal ink be shed;No sophistry shall reconcileWith sympathy for Erin’s Isle,Or sorrow for her patriot dead,The weeping of this crocodile.Life’s incongruity is past,And dirt to dirt is seen at last,The worm of worm afoul doth fall.The sexton tolls his solemn bellFor scoundrel dead and gone to—well,It matters not, it can’t recallThis convict from his final cell.