The Chant of The Grave-Digger

A little poem for Hallowe’en.

By ROBERT S. CARR

I’m the one who gets you all,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Lean ones, fat ones, short or tall,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Rich and poor I lay you deep

Where the grave-worms writhe and creep

In the cold earth’s oozy seep,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Coffin-lids are bright and new,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Mausoleums mighty few,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Hear the wet clods tumble down,

Preacher, thief or circus clown,

Tattered rags or ermine gown,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Far away from mortal woes,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Maggots nibble at your toes,

Ho! I swing my shovel!

Born to die—a monstrous jest!—

Sordid four-score years at best,

Then you’re rotting with the rest.

Ho! I swing my shovel!