A CHRONICLE
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Once—but no matter when— There lived—no matter where— A man, whose name—but then I need not that declare.
He—well, he had been born, And so he was alive; His age—I details scorn— Was somethingty and five.
He lived—how many years I truly can't decide; But this one fact appears He lived—until he died.
"He died," I have averred, But cannot prove 't was so, But that he was interred, At any rate, I know.
I fancy he'd a son, I hear he had a wife: Perhaps he'd more than one, I know not, on my life!
But whether he was rich, Or whether he was poor, Or neither—both—or which, I cannot say, I'm sure.
I can't recall his name, Or what he used to do: But then—well, such is fame! 'T will so serve me and you.
And that is why I thus, About this unknown man Would fain create a fuss, To rescue, if I can.
From dark oblivion's blow, Some record of his lot: But, ah! I do not know Who—where—when—why—or what.
MORAL
In this brief pedigree A moral we should find— But what it ought to be Has quite escaped my mind!
Anonymous.