Not a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone, As the man to his bridal we hurried; Not a woman discharged her farewell groan, On the spot where the fellow was married.

We married him just about eight at night, Our faces paler turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the gas-lamp's steady burning.

NO useless watch-chain covered his vest, Nor over-dressed we found him; But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, With a few of his friends around him.

Few and short were the things we said, And we Spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we Silently stood about, With spite and anger dying, How the merest stranger had cut us out, With only half our trying.

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