Page:Captain Craig; a book of poems.djvu/188

174 Eutychides, who wrote the songs, Is going down where he belongs. O you unhappy ones, beware: Eutychides will soon be there! For he is coming with twelve lyres, And with more than twice twelve quires Of the stuff that he has done In the world from which he's gone. Ah, now must you know death indeed, For he is coming with all speed; And with Eutychides in Hell, Where's a poor tortured soul to dwell?

But you are dead now—yes, you are— And what you say will not go far; I don't think any one I knew Was ever quite so dead as you.

I'll say no more, for what remains? You must have known you had no brains;