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Poem	We bore him to his boneyard lot One afternoon at three; The clergyman was on the spot To earn his modest fee. We sprinkled on his coffin ld The customary loam, And so old Bill was snugly slid To his last home. A lonesome celebate we thought, For close as clam was he; We never guessed that he had got A lawful family, Till lo! we saw a gorgeous wreath Reposing on his bier, With on a scarlet scroll beneath: "To Father Dear." He ordered it hisself, they said, Before he had to go. His folks don't know that he is dead - Maybe they'll never know. His step was frail, his hair was grey, But though his sight was dim, He liked to kid hisself that they Still thought of him. Maybe they did: we never knew, And he would never tell; Perhaps their hearts were broken too - His was, I think . . . Ah well, We left him in the boneyard lot With none to shed a tear, And just a wreath, the one he bought: "To Father Dear."
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