Privation

With her grief the widow was so engrossed
As she rode at the hearse’s rear,
That I really think the dead man’s ghost
Must have shed the ghost of a tear.

She murmured and moaned and wiped her eyes
And blew her pale nose for relief,
Then started and cried, as in pained surprise,
“I’ve forgotten my handkerchief!

“O, what shall I do when we get to the grave
And the coffin is put in the ground?
I know I shall weep, for I cannot be brave
With those staring people all round.”

“Be calm,” said one; “there is nothing forgot,
For your handkerchief you bring⁠—
You are holding it⁠—see.” Said the widow: “What!
This pokey old linen thing?”