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Come, let us sit upon the grass
And tell sad tales of human ill:
How Bacon was a silly ass
Who caught a Chicken and a Chill;
And Charles the First, who made his will
But managed to mislay his head;
And Brown, who read the works of Mill,
Who is unfortunately dead.
Queen Bess, who swore upon the Mass
How many Catholics she'd kill;
Our glorious Marlborough, who, alas!
Could not be trusted near the till;
Chatham, who'd set the world a-thrill
And quite abruptly go to bed;
And Tims, who took the "Deathless" Pill,
Who is unfortunately dead.
Tales cling but fade; and falls the glass
That Rosamunda failed to spill;
Faint rails the fragrance of the Lass
Along the tiles of Richmond Hill:
But Genesis is printed still,
And Homer's verses still are read—
A writer of no little skill
Who is unfortunately dead.
ENVOI
Prince, pearls and diamonds, take your fill;
Don't mind if they are splashed with red:
I got them from my poor Aunt Jill,
Who is unfortunately dead. 
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