O My aged Uncle Arly
Sitting on a heap of Barley
Thro’ the silent hours of night,
Close beside a leafy thicket
On his nose there was a Cricket,
In his hat a Railway Ticket,
But his shoes were far too tight

Long ago, in youth, he squander’d
All his goods away, and wander’d
To the Tiniskoop hills afar.
There on golden sunsets blazing,
Every evening found him gazing,
Singing, Orb! you’re quite amazing
How I wonder what you are

Like the ancient Medes and Persians,
Always by his own exertions
He subsisted on those hills;
Whiles, by teaching children spelling,
Or at times by merely yelling,
Or at intervals by selling
Propter’s Nicodemus Pills.

Later, in his morning rambles,
He perceived the moving brambles,
Something square and white disclose;
Twas a First class Railway Ticket;
But, on stooping down to pick it
Off the ground, a pea-green Cricket
Settled on my uncle’s Nose.

Never, never more, oh, never,
Did that Cricket leave him ever,
Dawn or evening, day or night
Clinging as a constant treasure,
Chirping with a cheerious measure,
Wholly to my uncle’s pleasure,
Though his shoes were far too tight.

So for three and forty winters,
Till his shoes were worn to splinters,
All those hills he wandered o’er,
Sometimes silent; sometimes yelling;
Till he came to Borley Melling,
Near his old ancestral dwelling,
But his shoes were far too tight.

On a little heap of Barley
Died my aged Uncle Arly,
And they buried him one night;
Close beside the leafy thicket;
There, his hat and Railway Ticket;
There, his ever faithful Cricket,
But his shoes were far too tight.