Edwin Greenslade (Dryblower) Murphy
Hushed are the raving choking cries,
The dying groans.
A something stark and staring lies
Among the stones.
The carrion crow full gutted flies
From clean picked bones.
A trim-built cottage o'er the Bight.
An empty chair,
A woman weeping In the night
In lone despair
Sobbing to sleep a chubby mite-
His eyes; his hair.
Bitter the tears that well and flow
Where Death holds sway.
Heavy the hearts that come and go
Near coffined clay.
But life-long their grief who may not know
The yea or nay.
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