English Roses :: :: University of Virginia Library

Brother Skeletons, rise and no longer be dull,
Give a thump to the thorax, a scrape to the skull;
Don't be stupid and awkward, it's not a low trick,
I'm the Sexton who used with the spade and the pick
Once to do the last offices neatly for all,
At a modest expense and at every man's call,
Peer or pauper—I cared not, nor offered to strike
For more wages, as some folks—I served you alike.
And now shake off the dust, with its dolorous brand;
Come up, Barebones
And Sparebones,
The Lord is at hand.
Ha! the trumpet rings out with a terrible blast
And the Angel of Doom has awakened at last,
With a critical eye to the cut of your ribs
And a hand that goes down like a hammer on fibs;
For you cannot deceive him, he tells to a joint
Just the place of each toe and he misses no point;
And I'm ready to jog him and aid at a pinch,
Who have measured you down to the uttermost inch;
He will suffer no mixing of fancies or ends,
If your digits
Are Bridget's
Or some other good friend's.

Step out, skeletons, fast from your graves and the soil
Which has coated you thus as its portion and spoil;
We must celebrate somehow, at least with a Dance,
This surprising event which is more than romance
And (I take it) right welcome to sinner and saint,
Though we most of us ask for a daubing of paint;
And we seem fairly fit on the whole, in a lump,

264

Save your servant who cannot get rid of his hump;
Age has left you too withered and sombre and sere,
Sister Slybones
And Drybones—
Resurrection is here.
We feel awkward and stiffer than folks would desire,
In a dazzle of daylight and fusty attire;
But the worms have made free with our houses of flesh
And the heartiest need all a-building afresh,
A re-clothing and padding to fill in the cracks
And some substance and warmth on our bosoms and backs.
Aye, a cartload of hay, not a miserly dole,
Would be splendid and warm, and stop many a hole.
Come, os coccyx, patella, though brown as the Nile
Or the Ganges,
Phalanges,
Hurry up with a smile.

Yes, away with the clammy dead mould, look alive;
For the fiddlers are marching, and you must revive.
Here's a clout for you, Harry, to rouse you and raise
Those poor sticks to the style of appropriate praise;
There's a cuff to you, Charlie, with one foot in earth
And no visage adapted for singing or mirth;
I have orders to get you prepared for the show,
When the Lord (who is gracious) descends to my row;
So be ready to kick off the cumbering clay,
Bully Mawbones,
And Jawbones
If toothless be gay.
Right leg foremost and steady, stretch out with a will,
And keep time and together with me and my drill;
I am Sexton and buried you each, and I know
How you fitted and paired before shovelled below.
Dear old neighbours, attend to the tune and be smart,
And not off in your shuffle or out in your part.
It is like hoeing turnips, as you boys have seen,
To divide this grand fuddle and find space between.

265

Come, the game is not settled and hardly begun;
Here's the Doctor,
As Proctor,
Who provided my fun.

Merry meeting to you, sir, the Powers ordain—
Aye, and here you're at home with your patients again,
For it is chiefly your work and most came from your shop,
Taken down by the Science you used as a sop;
While you finished them neatly with beautiful fits,
And then trundled them off for dissection in bits;
Whence I learnt all the names of the blooming old parts,
And a taste of your tricks in the surgical arts.
For I was not a bungler or lazy or blind,
Doctor Sawbones,
Like Rawbones
Your assistant behind!
Don't you see him? Hook on, you can lighten the task.
And correct my mistakes—it is little to ask—
With a name here and there and a caution or knock,
If I get them confused or we end in a block.
We were partners in spoils and had many a spree
Above ground and below, we had sense to agree;
Fellow rogues should not quarrel; you dosed them, and I
Had a harvest of blunders, because they would die;
Kill and cure was your motto, a fine one for trade;
Ah, your bleeding
Was weeding
And food for the spade.

Ah, if Somebody sounds the reveillée again
And you folks are not out, He will surely complain;
So a truce to your squabbles and patch up your strife,
And though grubby and mouldy aroused to new life
Flock in numbers and welcome the call, grey or green,

266

White or yellow, and sketches of what you have been.
Never mind your complexion, don't stick at the hue,
Let me sort you and size you—posssssing the clue.
You old hussy, who stink now as ever you stank!
Come, that nigh bone
Is thigh bone
Of Betty who drank:
It's not yours, put it down, take your own proper crutch,
And get clear of her quarters—you're in the wrong hutch;
For she has not the sweetest of tempers, you know,
And is hasty and spiteful, a word and a blow;
She can hit pretty hard, as your cranium tells,
And of brandy (good Lord!) even here how she smells!
It is pitiful work, all this dawdling and fuss,
With a muddle of tibia, cervix and crus;
If you are not more speedy, I must use the stick;
From your furrows
And burrows,
Pop as rabbits—be quick.

Brother Skeletons, this is a jollier chime
Than the tune when we met last at burying time,
While the church bell was tolling and tears were the thing
With the Parson half drunk and mad George as our king;
You were mum then as mice and had nothing to speak,
Not a curse in your larynx or ghost of a squeak.
D---n that humerus there! It's your brother's, my man,
Who was drowned in his beer though so well he began,
With a voice in the Choir and the singing to do
Like a trombone:
Not, Tom, bone
The baggage for you.
I see changes about but forget not this hoard

267

And my duty, whatever the luck be abroad,
Or the shifting of landmarks—I spy the big yew
Where I planted Black Bill, who was always a screw.
Ah, and there he goes hobbling, as rusty as then
With no manners and scarcely the weakness of men.
Stop a moment, you thief, you are getting too mixed
With the butcher and must be directly unfixed;
You had never a sacrum like this, though you sat
On the labours
Of neighbours,
And flourished thereat.

Ho, the ladies are foremost and powdered and spry,
If with only the dust—I feel horribly dry,
And would give for a pint my few lingering “pegs,”
Just to stand a bit steady and trim on my legs.
Why, God bless me! I have the dear baker's left shin,
Quite an inch or two short and all shabby and thin.
Am I dreaming? I heard the last Trump sound a close,
If it weren't the new Vicar at play with his nose,
Or the Curate who thinks God is deaf with his talk,
But is Leanbones
And Meanbones
On a Puritan stalk.
Nay, it's right—they are risen and skulking from me,
The cussed beggars who grudged me that moderate fee;
When I scooped out their quarters and scamped not the toil,
Though the winter might freeze me or summer would boil,
And dug deeply and widely and filched from their sires
Or the future a space for the largest desires,
And then tucked them up warmly and turfed them in fast
In their beds and at peace, to be cheated at last.
You shall pay me now, robbers, or rest here and stink
With cracked Kensit—

268

But when's it,
Boys, coming to drink?

That looks better, good people—yes, bustle about,
Choose your own and choose all—mind, no dancing without!
But of course it is hard work and thankless at first,
And like me you are drowsy and cramped and athirst.
Where's that ulna, poor Bob, that would set you up right,
Which you dropped in the scrummage of Waterloo fight?
Go and fetch it—'twas fought in next parish—and run
While you can, ere the business has really begun.
Now the Quality come, and they answer my call;
Hitch on, Tallbones
And Smallbones—
My respects to you all.
It's the Squire, not so lusty in these narrow bounds
As when booted and spurred he rode after the hounds,
In his red coat on Polly of whom he was vain,
Though she threw him at length and he rose not again.
Sir, I wish you long life and all blessings and sport
With the gun and the rod—I remember your port,
Sir, and tasted it still through those famishing years—
I'll be pleased, if God will, to wipe off the arrears.
But excuse me, sir, please—that belongs to the law,
That incisor
And eyesore—
He was mighty of jaw.

Sister Skeletons, hug me, and babies and boys;
All the trouble has fled, and there's nothing but toys;
Though your eyes are mere sockets—you had not a choice—
And the rasping of files is more soft than your voice.
We want friction and use and the polish of Time,
To bring back the dead music and murmurous chime;
And by rubbing together we must grow more fair,

269

With superior gloss and an elegant air.
Lo, I see shaping out from her shadowy nook
Pretty Shybones
And Sprybones,
My sweetheart the cook.
Don't you mind in that kitchen, the Parson's, my dear,
How with kisses we drank out the old dying year
While we drank in the new and were merry and that,
Though you married another and dropt me—you cat!
But I'm not unforgiving, shake hands, and have me
As a partner in frolicking, now you are free;
Let the past be the past, while the present is ours;
Resurrection is here, with new promise and powers,
Come up, costa and vertebra, bravely step on:
And, you omen,
Abdomen
With viscera gone.

Let us skip till we rattle, and skip till we drop,
Since old death has departed and life is our prop;
For the graves are quite empty and pining with lack,
While our joints that want tallow keep groaning and crack;
They'll be supple and limber before we cry stay,
When the oil that we long for is wafted our way.
Make your postures, my children, as grateful as love
For the Mercy that lifts you from darkness above,
Or my staff will show how with a heavier stripe;
Smoker Bluebones
And Truebones,
Come, lend me a pipe.
You are fools, and at sixes and sevens in lots,
That I can't disentangle in time from their knots;
And despite my instructions and acting the nurse,
It's confusion confounded twice over and worse.
There is Jack running off with the femur of Dick,
And the Devil alone can have taught him the trick;
There's Betty with 'Lizabeth's uterus on,
And young Joe is a patchwork of Peter and John.

270

But, alack, I'm not me—it's your headpiece, Abe Strong;
I have huddled,
And muddled
My skeletons wrong.

Hullo, Parson, I'm seeking my head—you have mine,
O, you reverend rascal, so fond of your wine
And tobacco and gossip—I know you as well
As you did the Squire's dinner and sound of his bell;
Give it back then, and softly—don't swear as of old,
With the worms on your axis and mouth full of mould;
Come, no nonsense—I'm monarch here, this is my patch,
And I'll hold it against even hell and “Old Scratch.”
What, you fight me? Take that from the shovel and see,
Master Beerbones
And Queerbones,
You've a master in me.
But, my God, do have pity! Who's rising up now,
Rib on rib, piece by piece, with a thunderous brow;
Though I packed her in quicklime and dumped a huge stone
On her temper and trusted she'd leave me alone?
It is Nancy, my wife, and she's grown to her knob,
Though she borrows from neighbours to hasten the job;
And she's looking this way and like broomsticks and knives,
Or a hundred cross cats with a hundred cross lives.
Let me slip in my grave, it is quiet at least.
She's the image
Of scrimmage,
And will find them a feast.