"A year ago I was smoking,
When a strange young fellow came by.
He was taking notes on paper,
And the rum in his'n was _rye_.
Says he: 'I'm a writin' a hist'ry'--
'Twas then I thought he was drunk--
'And I want to see your graveyard,
And the tomb of your founder, Funk!'
"I think if he'd sot there, sonny,
I'd looked at him a week;
But he wanished tow'rd the graveyard,
Before your daddy could speak.
Directly back he tumbled,
Before I had quit my stare,
And he says: 'I'm disappinted!
No Funk is buried in there.'
"'The Funks is all up-country'--
That's all I could think to say,
'There never was Funks in Funkstown,
And there ain't any Funks to-day.'
'Why man,' he says, 'the city
That stands on Potomac's shores
Was settled by Funk, the elder,
Who afterward settled yours!
"'The Carrols, they bust him yonder;
Old Hager, he bust him here;
But my heart will bust till I find him,
And make a sketch of his bier.
Oh shame on the Funkstown spirit
That in Maryland does dwell!
_He_ wouldn't consent to be buried
Where you can keep a hotel.'"