  An old man, wrinkled with many woes, Went trudging along through the wintry snows; ’Twas the thirty-first of December, at night, He had travelled far and was worn out quite. The clock was just on the click of twelve, When the old man stopp’d and began to delve: And he made a grave in the broad highway, To be trampled upon on the coming day. Then in he crept, and had hardly strength, To stretch himself out at his utmost length, When the clock struck twelve!—at the solemn tone, The old man died without a groan. Just then a youth came tripping by, With a holiday look and a merry eye; His back was loaded with books and toys, Which he toss’d about to the girls and boys. He gave one glance at the dead old man. Then laughed aloud, and away he ran. But when he comes back, let him laugh, if he dare, At the following lines which are written there. “Beneath the stone which here you view, Lies Eighteen Hundred and Forty-two. His grandfathers blundered so sadly, that he Inherited only their penury, With a few little play-things he’s left for his heir, Who will frolic awhile, and then die of care. He lived, a wretched life, we’re told. And died at last, just twelve months old!” |
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