28

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL.

J. J. HUTCHINSON.

4. But a truce to this strain, for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in hu-man - i ty clad, Should make like the brute such a

o-late end, And depart from the light without leav-ing a friend. (For the end of last verse see next page.)

pauper he's one whom his Maker yet owns, Maker yet owns, Maker yet owns. Bear softly his bones, his bones, his bones, Over the stones, the stones, the stones. Tho'a

pauper he's one whom bis Maker yet owns,Bear softly his bones,his bones, his bones, over the stones, the stones, the stones, tho' a pauper he's one whom his Maker yet owns.