One bright morning a man was found mourning.
His wife had died.
She did not die while on her cot,
a happy dream a-dreamin’.
This man had learned that his wife had burned--
this could not be denied.
For there on the tile-floor, next to the door,
one match lay left a-gleamin’.
The lone man cried, wish’d he had died,
then moved to bury his wife.
He dug a hole, a deep, deep hole,
and prepared his wife to rest.
The blazing sun, his toiling done,
he lay the now-charred life
Void of all mirth beneath the earth
inside a long, brown chest.
Each day, to her, respects he would pay,
all the same, growing old.
His eyes showed grace, but his haggard face
had lost but all of its frisk.
Oh, he’d been a ‘teller an’ a nice-lookin’ feller’;
but now, no stories he told.
For all he could think of was that of his love,
and ah! his bottle of whisk’.
To-day this man to his Lord did pray,
“My God, if You can hear,
I—Dave—kneel at this grave,
clad in my leather vest.
I know I’ve not long, I know I’ve not long.
I know that my time is near.
Permission I ask as I throw down this flask:
God! Please let my soul rest!”
The man called Dave who knelt at the grave
turned pale as his blood ran cold.
His eyes flew up and he saw the skies,
the spark-ling dark ocean vast.
It dawned on him, and his face was grim,
that what he had asked was bold;
But Dave had requested; his God had been tested;
and now he lay breathing his last.
His wife had died.
She did not die while on her cot,
a happy dream a-dreamin’.
This man had learned that his wife had burned--
this could not be denied.
For there on the tile-floor, next to the door,
one match lay left a-gleamin’.
The lone man cried, wish’d he had died,
then moved to bury his wife.
He dug a hole, a deep, deep hole,
and prepared his wife to rest.
The blazing sun, his toiling done,
he lay the now-charred life
Void of all mirth beneath the earth
inside a long, brown chest.
Each day, to her, respects he would pay,
all the same, growing old.
His eyes showed grace, but his haggard face
had lost but all of its frisk.
Oh, he’d been a ‘teller an’ a nice-lookin’ feller’;
but now, no stories he told.
For all he could think of was that of his love,
and ah! his bottle of whisk’.
To-day this man to his Lord did pray,
“My God, if You can hear,
I—Dave—kneel at this grave,
clad in my leather vest.
I know I’ve not long, I know I’ve not long.
I know that my time is near.
Permission I ask as I throw down this flask:
God! Please let my soul rest!”
The man called Dave who knelt at the grave
turned pale as his blood ran cold.
His eyes flew up and he saw the skies,
the spark-ling dark ocean vast.
It dawned on him, and his face was grim,
that what he had asked was bold;
But Dave had requested; his God had been tested;
and now he lay breathing his last.