The Burial of the Linnet
Found in the garden—dead in his beauty.
Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring!
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.
Bury him kindly—up in the corner;
Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there;
Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,
Waving her tail like a plume in the air.
Bury him nobly—next to the donkey;
Fetch the old banner, and wave it about:
Bury him deeply—think of the monkey,
Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.
Bury him softly—white wool around him,
Kiss his poor feathers,—the first kiss and last;
Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:
Plant his poor grave with what ever grows fast.
Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,
Silent through summer, though other birds sing;
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.