Classic Poem

My female friends, whose tender hearts
Have better learned to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps,
"The Dean is dead' (and what is trumps?)
Then Lord have mercy on his soul
(Ladies, I'll venture for the Vole).
"Six Deans they say must bear the pall
(I wish I knew what king to call).
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend?'
No madam, 'tis a shocking sight,
And he's engaged Tomorrow night!
My lady Club would take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille!
He loved the Dean (I lead a heart),
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come, he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place.

Why do we grieve that friends should die?
No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene;
No further mention of the Dean,
Who now, alas, no more is missed
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now this favourite of Apollo?
Departed, and his works must follow:
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.