There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;

To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot:

The road is rough, and the hearse has no springs,

And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings:–

Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns…

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach

To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach;

He's taking a drive in his carriage at last,

But it will not be long if he goes on so fast!

Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns…

But a truce to this strain! for my soul it is sad

To think that a heart in humanity clad

Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,

And depart from the light without leaving a friend.

Bear softly his bones over the stones,

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.

At length the day of the funeral, pious and truthful ceremony that it was, arrived… two mutes were at the house-door, looking as mournful as could be expected of men with such a thriving job in hand; the whole of Mr Mould's establishment were on duty within the house or without; feathers waved, horses snorted, silk and velvets fluttered; in a word, as Mr Mould emphatically said, ‘everything that money could do was done’.