Republican Herald

From the Trenton Emporium and True American

LINES

On the death of Sir Nicholas Biddle; a wig of the nineteenth century, extensively known to his countrymen.

AIR-Burial of Sir John Moore.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the bank vault we hurried
Not a wig rent the air with his distress'd shout
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sod with our pen-knives turning,
By the trembling moonbeams' misty light,
And our lantern bluely burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast.
But in Senator's speeches we bound him
And he lay like a Biddle wig taking his rest,
With the Courier wrapped around him;

We sang o'er his relics, no burial hymn,
Nor spoke we a word of sorrow:
But we sprinkled his body with chloride-of-lime,
And hoped he would keep through the morrow.

For we thought, as we fitted his narrow bed,
And walled up his spare little cell,
How pleased would be Ewing & Harry & Webb,
To kiss their old cronies-farewell!

Lightly they'll talk of him when he's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where his comrades have laid him

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
And pasting a Tell-lie-graph over his stone,
We left him alone in his glory

WIG-WAG.