Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society.

My tale to-night is full of woe,
I would that it were one of gladness;
I would not thrill your hearts, you know,
With notes of grief or sadness.

My friend and yours is near his end,
His pulse is beating faint and low,
'Tis sad to lose so good a friend,
His time has come and he must go.

His life is ebbing fast away,
His mortal race is almost run,
He cannot live another day,
Nor see another rising sun.

While watching round his dying bed,
The tears we shed are tears of sorrow,
We'll close his eyes for he'll be dead,
And carried hence before to-morrow.

His frame, so fragile now and weak,
Was late the seat of vital power,
But now, alas! he cannot speak,
He's growing weaker every hour.

Old seventy-seven, your friend and mine,
Has done his part by you and me,
Then friends, let us unite and twine,