Then laughs and leaps in gay delight; And kicks and crows its pleasure, Rejuvenates our quiet home And fills our hours of leisure, Till “tired nature” claims the sway And gives the household holiday.
Cremation seems to some to be A matter of economy; To save a heavy funeral fee, Thus cheat the undertaker. It has always been our great desire To wholly shun _post mortem_ fire; We’d hate to roast a son or sire, Or be a body baker.
How those that like this novel plan To inflamate the corpse of man, May use the funeral frying pan, And gather up the ashes. But we truly trust that our friends, When our demise their bosom rends, Will in their sorrow make amends, Omitting cinder hashes.
No matter if the freight is low, Or if we were a deadhead through, Who’d want to be a broil or stew-- Thus to the turkey leveled? Oh, no! we hope that our fate Will be postponed till it’s so late The fashion will be out of date, And then we can’t be _deviled_.
Not for you cremating pyre, Because “it’s been your great desire To wholly shun _post mortem_ fire,” And thus to save your “bakin’.” Because you have this hope behind you, Don’t think your master will not find you, Tho’ deep in earth they have consigned you, Beneath a lying stone. When earthly things do fade from view, And all the chances you’ve run through, Then will the devil have his due, And he will claim his own.
There is, we find, a class of folks Opposed to our cremation jokes: ’Twere vain for us to try to coax Them out of cinder-ation; For furnace heat they sigh at heart, They’d ape the goose or gander part, Or baked like pudding, pie, or tart, Be _dessert_ of creation.
To such we would sincerely say, Their fiery instincts should obey, We would not have our wishes weigh Against incendiaries; But let them burn or bake by rule, As suits the taste of sage or fool, Our greatest aim is to keep cool, Nor cross the Stygian ferries.
Cremators seem to pine for fire, Nor would we quench their warm desire, Though our hope is something higher, We here would mildly mention: If they their loved ones would ignite, And think a burning bier is right, Why let them take a fiery flight “Where they pave with good intention.”
Hers is a rayless night; No star or gleam of light Beams o’er the widow’s blight, As she sits alone. Oh! could her tears that flow, Wash out her woman’s woe, Brown every sorrow’s throe And misery’s moan.