Note 397 — Chapter XIV

For verily on that most dreadful day, When in the Valley of Jehosaphat The trump shall sound, and thrill this globe of clay, And dead folk shuddering leave their tombs thereat, No well, sewer, privy shall be found, I say, Which, while the angels roar their rat-tat-tat, Shall not disgorge its Spaniards, Frenchmen, Swiss, Germans, and rogues of every race that is. Then shall we see a wonderful dispute, As each with each they wrangle, bone for bone; One grasps an arm, one grabs a hand, a foot; Comes one who says, "These are not yours, you loon!" "They're mine!" "They're not!" While many a limb of brute Joined to their human bodies shall be shown, Mule's heads, bull's legs, cruppers and ears of asses, As each man's life on earth his spirit classes.