And then come the gloom of that black, bitter day
When "Thy will be done" looked so wicked ter say
As we drove to the grave, while the rain seemed to fall
Like the tears of the sky on the old carryall.

And so it has served us through sunshine and cloud,
Through fun'rals and weddin's, from bride-wreath ter shroud;
It's old and it's rusty, it's shaky and lame,
But I love every j'int of its rickety frame.
And it's restin' at last, for its race has been run,
It's lived out its life and its work has been done,
And I hope, in my soul, at the last trumpet call
I'll have done mine as well as the old carryall.

* * * * *

OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS

O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me
In that lazy little village down beside the tumblin' sea,
When yer sniff the burnin' powder, when yer see the banners fly,
Don't yer thoughts, like mine, go driftin' back to Fourths long since
gone by?
And, amongst them days of gladness, ain't there one that stands alone,
When yer had yer first fire-crackers--jest one bunch, but all yer own?

Don't yer 'member how yer envied bigger chaps their fuss and noise,
'Cause yer Ma had said that crackers wasn't good fer _little_ boys?
Do yer 'member how yer teased her, morn and eve and noon and night,
And how all the world yelled "Glory!" when at last she said yer might?