Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/591

 

Her body is disposed of well, A comely grave doth hide her; Her soul? I know not, but can tell, Old Nick could ne'er abide her.

Which makes me guess she's gone aloft, For in the last great thunder, Methought I heard her well-known voice Rending the skies asunder.  undefined  soft in dust, wait the Almghty's will, Then rise unchanged, and be an angel still.  undefined  at a cobbler's door oft made a stand, And always found him on the mending hand. At last came death in very dirty weather, And ripped the sole from off the upper leather. Death put a trick upon him, and what was't? The cobbler called for's awl, Death brought his last.  undefined  a sleeping infant lies; To earth her body's lent; More glorious she'll hereafter rise, Though not more innocent. When the Archangel's trump shall blow, And souls to bodies join, Millions will wish their lives below Had been as short as thine.  undefined