What a weakling!
Ancestors anticipating
Stricken with age
Angels of death on voyage
Oh! the spirit is taken
Kins-now heavy-laden
Weep hot blood
Not in a drop but in a flood
In six feet lowered the coffin
All aloud in depth wailing
The day is broomswept
No traces on those who wept
The street is sabotaged
And glasses of champaign are served