No friend to wipe the sweat of death
From off his face,
Or kindred, when he drew his breath
In this deserted place.

So, here he lies beneath the soil,
Where wild weeds grow,
The poor, the pauper, freed from toil,
In rough-hewn boxes low.

No marble monument to tell,
In doubtful truth,
That he had acted ill or well
In hoary age or youth.

A simple board is all that's seen,
Or points to where
In silence sleeps the poor plebeian,
Releas'd from earthly care.