A Chronicle

Once—but no matter when—
      There lived—no matter where—
  A man, whose name—but then
      I need not that declare.

He—well, he had been born,
      And so he was alive;
  His age—I details scorn—
      Was somethingty and five.

He lived—how many years
      I truly can’t decide;
  But this one fact appears
      He lived—until he died.

“He died,” I have averred,
      But cannot prove ’t was so,
  But that he was interred,
      At any rate, I know.

I fancy he’d a son,
      I hear he had a wife:
  Perhaps he’d more than one,
      I know not, on my life!

But whether he was rich,
      Or whether he was poor,
  Or neither—both—or which,
      I cannot say, I’m sure.

I can’t recall his name,
      Or what he used to do:
  But then—well, such is fame!
      ’T will so serve me and you.

And that is why I thus,
      About this unknown man
  Would fain create a fuss,
      To rescue, if I can.

From dark oblivion’s blow,
      Some record of his lot:
  But, ah! I do not know
      Who—where—when—why—or what.

In this brief pedigree
      A moral we should find—
  But what it ought to be
      Has quite escaped my mind!

Anonymous.