by: Edmund Clarence Stedman
- HERE'S he
that died o' Wednesday?
- What place on earth hath he?
- A tailor's yard beneath, I wot,
- Where worms approaching be;
- For the wight that died o' Wednesday,
- Just laid the light below,
- Is dead as the varlet turned to clay
- A score of years ago.
- Where's he that died o' Sabba' day?
- Good Lord, I'd not be he!
- The best of days is foul enough
- From this world's fare to flee;
- And the saint that died o' Sabba' day,
- With his grave turf yet to grow,
- Is dead as the sinner brought to pray
- A hundred years ago.
- Where's he that died o' yesterday?
- What better chance hath he
- To clink the can and toss the pot
- When this night's junkets be?
- For the lad that died o' yesterday
- Is just as dead -- ho! ho! --
- As the whoreson knave men laid away
- A thousand years ago.
MORE POEMS BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
"Falstaff's Song" is reprinted
from The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900. Ed.
Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915.