Classic Poem

Suppose me, quit this mortal dwelling,
My spirit (bless us!) heav'n, or hell, in,
Lud! what shrill sighs, and shouts, and wailing.

The great folk, patrons of all learning,
At last, my merits high, discerning;
Lament my loss, their bowels yearning.

“And is He dead? the Flow'r of writing,”
“Whose verses we took such delight in;”
“Alack! as dead as any whiting.”

“Aye, aye, he's but a broken pitcher,”
“Had he liv'd longer, he'd be richer;”
“Yet, let us give him now a niche, or,”

“Mausoleum, for, truth is best,”
“Fancy, had fired, his glowing breast,”
“And Genius, her sweet Boy, carest.”

Fair fate, and lucky necks befal ye,
Yet, rising, from the dead I call ye;
And still, alive, ye Rogues, to maul ye!

And now, right worthy Sirs, perpend,
While Life remains, I want a friend;
When Death comes on, why,——there's an End.