One widow at a grave will sob

A little while, and weep, and sigh!

If two should meet on such a job,

They’ll have a gossip by and by.

If three should come together — why,

Three widows are good company!

If four should meet by any chance,

Four is a number very nice,

To have a rubber in a trice —

But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C—— (why should I not

Declare her name? — her name was Cross)

Was one of those the “common lot”

Had left to weep “no common loss”;

For she had lately buried then

A man, the “very best of men,”

A lingering truth, discovered first

Whenever men “are at the worst.”

To take the measure of her woe,

It was some dozen inches deep —

I mean in crape, and hung so low,

It hid the drops she did not weep:

In fact, what human life appears,

It was a perfect “veil of tears.”

Though ever since she lost “her prop

And stay”— alas! he wouldn’t stay —

She never had a tear to mop,

Except one little angry drop

From Passion’s eye, as Moore would say,

Because, when Mister Cross took flight,

It looked so very like a spite —

He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,

As if “to wet a widows’ cheek,”

And soothe his grave with sorrow’s gravy —

’Twas nothing but a make-believe,

She might as well have hoped to grieve

Enough of brine to float a navy;

And yet she often seemed to raise

A cambric kerchief to her eye —

A duster ought to be the phrase,

Its work was all so very dry.

The springs were locked that ought to flow —

In England or in widow-woman —

As those that watch the weather know,

Such “backward Springs” are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains

To call upon the “dear remains”—

Remains that could not tell a jot

Whether she ever wept or not,

Or how his relict took her losses?

Oh! my black ink turns red for shame —

But still the naughty world must learn,

There was a little German came

To shed a tear in “Anna’s Urn,”

At the next grave to Mr. Cross’s!

For there an angel’s virtues slept,

“Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!”

But still her painted face he kept,

“Encompassed in an angel’s frame.”

He looked quite sad and quite deprived,

His head was nothing but a hat-band;

He looked so lone, and so unwived,

That ............