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A rich man speaketh, and all keep silence; and what he saith they extol to the clouds: A poor man speaketh, and they say, Who is this? and if he stumble, they will help to overthrow him.

The Pauper's Drive

(English poet of the Chartist period)

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot; To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings:— "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

Oh, where are the mourners? alas! there are none; He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone, Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man— To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can. "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

What a jolting and creaking, and splashing and din; The whip how it cracks! and the wheels how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world. "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"