Here Salomon’s body reposes;
Bring roses, ye rebels, bring roses. 
Set all of your drumsticks a-rolling,
Discretion and Valor extrolling: 
Discretion—­he always retreated—­
And Valor—­the dead he defeated. 
Brings roses, ye loyal, bring roses: 
As patriot here he re-poses.

* * * * *

When Waterman ended his bright career
He left his wet name to history here. 
To carry it with him he did not care: 
’Twould tantalize spirits of statesmen There.

* * * * *

Here lie the remains of Fred Emerson Brooks, A poet, as every one knew by his looks Who hadn’t unluckily met with his books.

On civic occasions he sprang to the fore With poems consisting of stanzas three score.  The men whom they deafened enjoyed them the more.

Of reason his fantasy knew not the check: 
All forms of inharmony came at his beck. 
The weight of his ignorance fractured his neck.

In this peaceful spot, so the grave-diggers say, With pen, ink and paper they laid him away—­ The Poet-elect of the Judgment Day.

* * * * *

  George Perry here lies stiff and stark,
With stone at foot and stone at head. 
  His heart was dark, his mind was dark—­
“Ignorant ass!” the people said.

  Not ignorant but skilled, alas,
In all the secrets of his trade: 
  He knew more ways to be an ass
Than any ass that ever brayed.

* * * * *

Here lies the last of Deacon Fitch,
Whose business was to melt the pitch. 
Convenient to this sacred spot
Lies Sammy, who applied it, hot. 
’Tis hard—­so much alike they smell—­

One’s grave from t’other’s grave to tell,
But when his tomb the Deacon’s burst
(Of two he’ll always be the first)
He’ll see by studying the stones
That he’s obtained his proper bones,
Then, seeking Sammy’s vault, unlock it,
And put that person in his pocket.

* * * * *

Beneath this stone O’Donnell’s tongue’s at rest—­
Our noses by his spirit still addressed. 
Living or dead, he’s equally Satanic—­
His noise a terror and his smell a panic.

* * * * *

When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast
And swears that Time’s forever past,
Days, weeks, months, years all one at last,
Then Asa Fiske, laid here, distressed,
Will beat (and skin his hand) his breast: 
There’ll be no rate of interest!

* * * * *

Step lightly, stranger:  here Jerome B. Cox
Is for the second time in a bad box. 
He killed a man—­the labor party rose
And showed him by its love how killing goes.

* * * * *

  When Vrooman here lay down to sleep,
  The other dead awoke to weep. 
“Since he no longer lives,” they said
“Small honor comes of being dead.”