FALSTAFF'S SONG

by: Edmund Clarence Stedman (1833-1908)

      HERE'S he that died o' Wednesday?
      What place on earth hath he?
      A tailor's yard beneath, I wot,
      Where worms approaching be;
      For the wight that died o' Wednesday,
      Just laid the light below,
      Is dead as the varlet turned to clay
      A score of years ago.
       
      Where's he that died o' Sabba' day?
      Good Lord, I'd not be he!
      The best of days is foul enough
      From this world's fare to flee;
      And the saint that died o' Sabba' day,
      With his grave turf yet to grow,
      Is dead as the sinner brought to pray
      A hundred years ago.
       
      Where's he that died o' yesterday?
      What better chance hath he
      To clink the can and toss the pot
      When this night's junkets be?
      For the lad that died o' yesterday
      Is just as dead -- ho! ho! --
      As the whoreson knave men laid away
      A thousand years ago.

"Falstaff's Song" is reprinted from The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900. Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915.

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