Indiana State Sentinel

The following Parody, which we copy from the New York Sunday Dispatch, is a sad, and is surely well bestowed.

The Burial of Sangrado.—After Sir John Moore.

Respectfully dedicated to those gory physicians

Who

Secretly study the art of Anatomy

Not a leech was heard but a cupping of blood,
As it gurg'd from a lancet, or hurried:
Not a pill was discharged from a box to the flood,
Or over the grave where our brother was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sod with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadily shot his foes o'er his head,

And we left him alone with his glory.

The brass-bound pump, with its iron clank,

By the planter's-thrifty hand was plied;

And soon much dunce's burden sank,

No narcot's rule to clog his breast,

Nor on an enema, short in length, we wound him;

But John, as taker of Jerry's lunch in that,

Jaw tutors all about Jove.

Few and short were the words we heard near,

And we fir'd him a parting volley o'er his rear,

As we steadily mourn'd this lost tears of the dead,

Yet we, buried though on life's narrow

We thought, as his grass was cramm'd down tight,

And po'ltices at moments on the middle,

That European wag'll tap with extra delight

O'er be god-ta, lra au.l Journ'd Sculluh h.slle.

We knew, when our lark was hied to leave,

An tho' pmute cramrl (t arl ux n burorrr

Th it Lwhwon on L.ud., waaht laugh in din xlrovr,

At homor, Lo, waukd Ductur Iili 'Torurr.

( t'urkly and bri-kly wa lud hun down,

Wathi the fann bu had I nd auwh a chatce at;

Wn carv'd mol a Juer", we ralred nut a xiutin,

1ut no lrl ho) alona witl: ts tael.