On a windy Monday afternoon,
’twas in the Winter of 1810,
when Silas Barnes, a modest man,
began a job he would e’er attend.
He was a common gravedigger,
no sort of man to be unnerved,
he had an air of sedentary ease,
ne’er his days would be observed.
On Tuesday, fashioned later then,
he buried a man he knew in youth,
an old acquaintance of vague recall,
he dug the grave with a bitter truth.
On Wednesday, ‘ere beauty was laid,
a young girl of so few tender years,
she bore a smile as he dug her grave,
and mourners shed long their tears.
On Thursday, ’twas a crowded noon,
a throng of faithfuls mourned a man,
it seemed, he was some kind of hero,
but Silas moved earth without a fan.
On Friday, a martyr had been made,
when grave was struck, it had bled,
and Silas, his much simpler mind,
had no remorse for greater dead.
On Saturday, as his day of rest,
Silas wiled the hours in solitude,
and when night came to slumber,
no dreams would he dare conclude.
On Sunday, now in his aged repose,
Silas tendered grave of lesser fame,
he wiped the dust from the stone,
then laid low, ‘ere it bore his name.