O my aged Uncle Arly!

Sitting on a heap of Barley

     Thro’ the silent hours of night, —

Close beside a leafy thicket: —

On his nose there was a Cricket, —

In his hat a Railway-Ticket; —

     (But his shoes were far too tight.)

Long ago, in youth, he squander’d

All his goods away, and wander’d

     To the Tiniskoop-hills afar.

There on golden sunsets blazing,

Every morning found him gazing, —

Singing – “Orb! you’re quite amazing!

     How I wonder what you are!”

Like the ancient Medes and Persians,

Always by his own exertions

     He subsisted on those hills; —

Whiles, – by teaching children spelling, —

Or at times by merely yelling, —

Or at intervals by selling

     “Propter’s Nicodemus Pills.”

Later, in his morning rambles

He perceived the moving brambles —

     Something square and white disclose; —

‘Twas a First-class Railway-Ticket;

But, on stooping down to pick it

Off the ground, – a pea-green Cricket

     Settled on my uncle’s Nose.

Never – never more, – oh! never,

Did that Cricket leave him ever, —

     Dawn or evening, day or night; —

Clinging as a constant treasure, —

Chirping with a cheerious measure, —

Wholly to my uncle’s pleasure

     (Though his shoes were far too tight.)

So for three-and-forty winters,

Till his shoes were worn to splinters,

     All those hills he wander’d o’er, —

Sometimes silent; – sometimes yelling; —

Till he came to Borley-Melling,

Near his old ancestral dwelling; —

     (But his shoes were far too tight.)

On a little heap of Barley

Died my aged uncle Arly,

     And they buried him one night; —

Close beside the leafy thicket; —

There, – his hat and Railway-Ticket; —

There, – his ever-faithful Cricket; —

     (But his shoes were far too tight.)