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From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 91-92.


[91]

TRUTH AND TOMBSTONES

When through the quiet fields I go
Where side by side sleep high and low,
I seldom see an epitaph
Which tells the truth or even half.
If we could sift the wheat from chaff,
If pious lies no more were read,
But only bitter truth instead,
With little left to soothe and please,
Some stones would tell us facts like these:
“Poor Mary Jones lies in this tomb,
She pushed too far a heavy broom.
Her husband grieves, his sorrow deeper
Because he bought no carpet sweeper.”
“In memory of Hetty Burke
Who died of general overwork.
Her husband finds it much more bother
To save one wife than get another.
He’ll not be long a widowed weeper,
Hired help is dear, but wives are cheaper.”
“Here Susan Smith has rest at last,
Too many children came too fast.”
“Here lies the wife of Hapgood Hicks
Who did the weekly wash for six.
[92] She’s glad to rest beneath these sods;
She carried water seven rods.”
Life’s burdens should be justly shared.
Some husbands could be better spared
Than wives for whom these stones were squared.
Dry-eyed we’d plant those selfish coots
And leave them there till Gabriel toots.






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