The times., 1892-10-14
Obituary Poetry

II wud not die in ortum
With peaches fit fur eatin',
When the wavy corn is gettin' ripe
And ndcandidates are treatin
For these and other reasons
I'd not die in the phall
And since rvethort it over,
wud not die at allr
The demise of the poet laureate. Alfred
TennysOn, has set all the poetical ouills in
the world to quivering, and the Wav the
poor printers have to take it is dreadful TO be
sure. 1t is not because the old poet hadn't
written enough, for he has been pretty con-
tinually engaged at it for over sixty wears:
neither. is 1t on account of the delicate tex
ture of his divine efflatus-for his poetry
smells of the shop and he made money with
it-nor yet because of its patriotic inspira-
ton, but 1t is simply because he ,Uas a great
poet. lie was great III body, great i'm title.
great and somewhat gross mentally, and
great in quantity of productions, and still,
considering the years he has consumed at
the business he must have been very lazy
writer. IhlS however does not prevent sur
vlvlng poets from owling over him, so 10
speak, for In fact he was a great poet, and
the natural tendency in every rhymer to
drop into verse at the approach of death has
brought out variety of obituaries to his
credit
These things remind me of preacher who
was candidating it around i'm search of n
place to work i'm the vineyard of the Lord.
lie admitted to the church committee. after
he had given them sample of his ware,
that he wasn't very much of preacher, and
that he couldn't sing very well, "But," said
he, when you come to funerals, can make
the mourners feel worse than any man you
ever saw" So with obituary poets; they can
make the mOumers feel bad if at nothing
but the construction of their verse, though
many of these terrOrs to the printer are held
in high estimation by ''the friends" AS |
said before, the approach of death brings
out song and great many poets have
limited their efforts entirely to obituary
verse,
There was once barnyard fowl bred in
my hennery which was so constructed ex-
teriorly that it was impossible to determine
his sex by careful scrutiny even. He used
to deceive, as he grew older, the old chan
ticleer himself, who would occasionally step
up and look him in the eye, but at such
times the yOungster dropped his feathers and
began to sing like pullet, and still, when
at safe distance he could crow Justify.
That old rooster however could always make
him sing.
For obituary poetry of the dyed-in-the.
wool variety, perhaps no one ever equalled
1.-The Sweet Singer of Michigan"-Julia A.
Moore. l have before me copy of her SEN
timental song book, published in '76. 1t is
not large volume. In fact it Is quite the
reverse, but it holds thirty-eight poems
mostly of mOrtuary type, which scope in
nearly all the authors friends and neigh
bOrs. 1t is a dreadful thing to live in the
vicinity of such sad, not to say hilariOusly
mOurnful poet. will quote few lines of
some of her most painful poetry for the ben
fit of the reader. You understand that the
author of this gem is, Or was, living verify
and the things she relates are truthful trans
latiOns and are not drawn from the ETHEREAL
web of nOthingness.
In the preface she remarks that, "This
little book is composed of truthful pieces.
All those which speak of being killed, died
or drowned are truthful songs"
She says, among other things, of her early
life
my heart was gay and happy
This was ever in my mind
There Is better days coming,
And hope some day to find
Myself capable OF composing
II was my hearts delight
To compose on q sentimental subject
III II came in my mind just right"
She evidently found herself capable and
still she closes this poem with a sort Of wall
showing that she was a sensitive soul. She
says:
"And now kind friends what Ihave wrote
hope you will pass DER
And not criticise as some have done
Hitherto heretofore"
To which l mignt add in my poor weak
way
They will do II darling julia
For this world Is coarse and cold;
And they'll try their best to fool you
Just because you're growing old.
In an eighteen stanza poem she buries
William House and all but one of his family
of ten with smallpox in this way:
Come all kind friends. both far and near,
Come listen to me and you shall hear
It's of family and their fate,
All about them will relate.