What epitaph for the curmudgeon, of uncharitable mind,
Gave naught to orphans, nor those stricken blind;
Yea, a miserly wretch in the business of Life
With ne’er one good word for his long-suffering wife.
Perhaps a hereditary factor, this temperament’s mood,
For both mother and father were Calvinists prude,
And nary a laugh, nor giggle, nor smile
Passed in their presence lest gave vent pious bile.
I found him alike an awkward old goat,
For I shined black his boots, and brushed well his coat,
Passed him his hat, and gnarled blackthorn stick,
saw him to bed, and snuffed out the lamp’s wick.
And what for his butler, when read was the will ?
No single mention was wrote down by his quill.