Oh, the sights that I see as I ply my lone trade,
In the moldering dust that a cent’ry hath made,
Where the coffin-worm doth creep.
I began long ago, when my life was still green,
And my mattock and spade have been active, I ween,
To fashion the grave so deep.
Ho! I laugh as I dig, for they all seek my aid,
To provide them a home with my mattock and spade.
The rich man hath pass’d me with towering head,
But I sang o’er his grave when the scorner was dead,
And laugh’d as I shovel’d the mold.
The hungry and wretched ne’er enter’d his door,
_His_ heart never bled for the wrongs of the poor,
For the proud man well loved his gold.
Ho! I laugh’d as I dug, for they wanted my aid,
To provide him a home with my mattock and spade.
I saw a young man in the fresh bloom of life,
As he came to the church with a trembling young wife,
Lift against me the finger of scorn.
Oh, the revel was joyous, the dance lasted long;
But the shriek of the widow soon banish’d the song--
The young man died ere the morn!
Ho! I laugh’d as I dug, when they came for my aid,
To provide him a home with my mattock and spade.
I saw a fair child bend her beautiful head,
And cull the lone flowers that bloom o’er the dead,
To form a pure simple wreath.
The crimson of hectic suffused her pale face;
In her eyes fearful lustre I trembled to trace,
The herald of early death.
But I pray that ere then, the deep home I have made,
May close over _me_, and my mattock and spade.