And six little Singing-boys,—dear little souls!

What was to be done? — 'twas perfectly plain That they could not well hang the man over again: — What was to be done? — The man was dead! — Nought could be done — nought could be said; So — my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Now haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!

Next morning I was up betimes — I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried, "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

Though I 've always consider'd Sir Christopher Wren, As an architect, one of the greatest of men; And, — talking of Epitaphs, — much I admire his "Circumspice, si Monumentum requiris;" Which an erudite Verger translated to me, " If you ask …

Here's a corpse in the case with a sad swell'd face, And a 'Crowner's Quest' is a queer sort of thing!

But wherever they live, or whenever they die, They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe.