With her grief the widow was so engrossed
As she rode at the hearse’s rear,
That I really think the dead man’s ghost
Must have shed the ghost of a tear.
She murmured and moaned and wiped her eyes
And blew her pale nose for relief,
Then started and cried, as in pained surprise,
“I’ve forgotten my handkerchief!
“O, what shall I do when we get to the grave
And the coffin is put in the ground?
I know I shall weep, for I cannot be brave
With those staring people all round.”
“Be calm,” said one; “there is nothing forgot,
For your handkerchief you bring—
You are holding it—see.” Said the widow: “What!
This pokey old linen thing?”