By Albert Gorton Greene
Old Grimes is dead; that good old man,
We ne’er shall see him more;
He used to wear a long, black coat,
All buttoned down before.
His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray,
He wore it in a queue.
He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert;
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbours he did not abuse,
Was sociable and gay;
He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,
Nor make a noise town-meeting days,
As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune’s chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturbed by anxious cares
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.