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Poem	The aged Queen who passed away Had sixty servants, so they say; Twice sixty hands her shoes to tie: Two soapy ones have I. The old Queen had of beds a score; A cot have I and ask no more. For when the last is said and done One can but die in one. The old Queen rightly thought that she Was better than the likes o' me; And yet I'm glad despite her grace I am not in her place. The old Queen's gone and I am here, To eat my tripe and drink my beer, Athinkin' as I wash my clothes: We must have monarchs, I suppose . . . Well, well,--'Taint no skin off my nose!
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