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 evening 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 ).
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