University of Virginia Library

One widow at a grave will sob
A little while, and weep, and sigh;
If two should meet on such a job,
They'll have a gossip by and by.
If three should come together—why,
Three widows are good company!
If four should meet by any chance,
Four is a number very nice,
To have a rubber in a trice—
But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C---(why should I not
Declare her name?—her name was Cross)
Was one of those the ‘common lot’
Had left to weep ‘no common loss’—
For she had lately buried then
A man, the ‘very best of men,’
A lingering truth, discover'd first
Whenever men ‘are at the worst.’
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep—
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did not weep:
In fact, what human life appears,
It was, a perfect ‘veil of tears.’
Though ever since she lost ‘her prop
And stay,’—alas! he wouldn't stay—
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop,
From Passion's eye, as Moore would say;
Because, when Mister Cross took flight,
It look'd so very like a spite—
He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if to ‘wet a widow's cheek,’
And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy,—
'Twas nothing but a make-believe,
She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And yet she often seem'd to raise
A cambric kerchief to her eye—
A duster ought to be the phrase,
Its work was all so very dry.
The springs were lock'd that ought to flow—
In England or in widow-woman—
As those that watch the weather know,
Such ‘backward Springs’ are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains
To call upon the ‘dear remains,’—
Remains that could not tell a jot
Whether she ever wept or not,
Or how his relict took her losses?
Oh! my black ink turns red for shame—
But still the naughty world must learn
There was a little German came
To shed a tear in ‘Anna's Urn,’
At the next grave to Mr. Cross's!
For there an angel's virtues slept,
‘Too soon did Heav'n assert its claim!’
But still her painted face he kept,
‘Encompass'd in an angel's frame.’

He look'd quite sad, and quite depriv'd,
His head was nothing but a hat-band;
He look'd so lone, and so unwiv'd,
That soon the Widow Cross contriv'd
To fall in love with even that band;
And all at once the brackish juices
Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices—
Tear after tear too fast to wipe,
Tho' sopp'd, and sopp'd, and sopp'd again—
No leak in sorrow's private pipe,
But like a bursting on the main!
Whoe'er has watch'd the windowpane—
I mean to say in showery weather—
Has seen two little drops of rain,
Like lovers very fond and fain,
At one another creeping, creeping,
Till both, at last, embrace together:
So far'd it with that couple's weeping!
The principle was quite as active—
Tear unto tear
Kept drawing near,
Their very blacks became attractive.
To cut a shortish story shorter,
Conceive them sitting tête-à-tête—
Two cups—hot muffins on a plate—
With ‘Anna's Urn’ to hold hot water!
The brazen vessel for a while
Had lectured in an easy song,
Like Abernethy—on the bile—
The scalded herb was getting strong;
All seem'd as smooth as smooth could be,
To have a cosey cup of tea;
Alas! how often human sippers
With unexpected bitters meet,
And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,
Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told,
Had seen three husbands to the mould;
She never sought an Indian pyre,
Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves,
But, with a proper sense of fire,
Put up, instead, with ‘three removes:’
Thus, when with any tender words
Or tears she spoke about a loss,
The dear departed, Mr. Cross,
Came in for nothing but his thirds;
For, as all widows love too well,
She liked upon the list to dwell,
And oft ripp'd up the old disasters.
She might, indeed, have been suppos'd
A great ship owner; for she pros'd
Eternally of her Three Masters!

Thus, foolish woman! while she nurs'd
Her mild souchong, she talk'd and reckon'd
What had been left her by her first,
And by her last, and by her second.
Alas! not all her annual rents
Could then entice the little German—
Not Mr. Cross's Three Per Cents,
Or Consols, ever make him her man:
He liked her cash, he liked her houses,
But not that dismal bit of land
She always settled on her spouses.
So taking up his hat and band,
Said he, ‘You'll think my conduct odd—
But here my hopes no more may linger;
I thought you had a wedding-finger,
But oh!—it is a curtain-rod!’