The Heirs

They hastened to the funeral when Aunt Sabrina died.
Nephews, nieces, relatives--they came from far and wide.
They hurried in by boat and train; they came by stage and team,
In breasts a jealous bitter greed, in eyes a hungry gleam.
I knew the most as decent men, their wives as honest dames,
Who in the common run of things were careful of their names.
And yet, alas, we sadly find that many who behave
As cooing doves in daily life are buzzards at the grave.
So while the choir softly purred, and while the parson prayed,
The lids of mourning eyes were raised and sneaking glances strayed
From old-style clock to pantry shelf, from parlor set to rug,
And knitted brows weighed soberly how much each heir could lug.
Anon the lustful glances crossed and scowl replied to scowl,
And spoke as plain as though the look were voiced in sullen growl:
Thus when the parson prayed, "Oh, Lord, take
Thou this way-worn soul,"
I caught a look that plainly spoke: "I'll take that china bowl."
And this look said, "I speak for that," and that look spoke for this,
The while the parson droned of love and told them of the bliss
That cometh after struggles here; "The peace of rest," he said,
And then each woman claimed through looks her aunt's goose-feather bed.
'Twas thus the kindred flocked to town when
Aunt Sabrina died,
Ostensibly to bury her, but really to divide.
No will was left,'twas catch as can; and each and every heir,
Came in with desperate intent to scoop the biggest share.
They passed around with creaking shoes and kissed the silent lip,
And pressed the limp, old, withered hand from out whose jealous grip
The goods of earth had slipped away to heap a funeral pyre,
A tinder pile where torch of Greed would start a roaring fire.
They rode behind in solemn show and stood around the grave,
Until the coffin sank from sight; and then each jealous knave
Hopped back with great celerity in carriage and in hack,
And folks who saw averred those heirs raced horses going back.
This is no fairy tale, my friend! I'm giving you the facts,
'Tis just an instance where the heirs came round and brought an axe;
Where folks of pretty honest stripe could hardly bear to wait
To decently inter the corpse ere carving the estate;
--All ready at the prayer's "Amen" to scratch and haul and claw
With nails of jealous rancor and the talons of the law.
My brother, I've a notion, that it is sinful pride
When we pose before the heathen as a highly moral guide.
For here in old New England are some capers that would--hush!--
This is strictly on the quiet--put a savage to the blush.
You know that when a savage leaves his relatives bereft,
There isn't any scrapping over what the heathen left.
They bury all his queer stone tools, his arrows and his bow,
They stuff his pack with grub for snack; put in his wampum "dough;"
They kill his horse and slay his dog and then they sing a song,
And kill off all his weeping wives and send them right along.
There's no annoying probate court, no long, litigious fuss,
No lawyer's fees, no family row, no will-destroying cuss.
The estate is executed in a brisk and thorough style
And though some certain features suit all right a heathen isle,
Some squeamish person might arise and properly complain
There's too much execution for adoption here in Maine.
So I'll not commend the custom, yet I firmly will abide
In the notion that we have no right to pose as moral guide
To the heathen; for it's evident, untutored though they are,
The heirs at least show manners in Borrioboola
Gha.