His eyes deeming like a rainy cloud,
The chime of his voice joisting in chide,
For on his dying mattress he lay,
Winking and blinking in hayfever like a dying soul in pain,

Though in his race,
Gallant he was and chivalrous,
But now like the Saviour on the cross he whispers,
Asking for one thing he never had,
As his life drifts away like a desert sand,

All his life,
He worked to live and dine with love,
His best he strifed to touch,
But nevertheless,
The heart of love he embraced not,
For yonder he sleeps with breathless breath,
And all his strives,
A credit to worms and maggots,
Who knocks at his casket with tears of joy,
And embrace his motionless skin with love.