The Dissapointed Sexton.

The sexton of a village near Sydney recently resigned because the locality was too healthy, and there were not enough deaths for him to make a living.—Newspaper item.

The Sexton's spade was red with rust,
Through painful lack of digging;
No dust had mingled with the dust
To keep the old man jigging:
No man had hopped
The twig, or flopped
When climbing up the rigging.

No doctors here to bring disease
To comfort or assist him,
No germ could stand the healthy breeze
Which blew about and kissed him.
A burglar shot
At Mr. Sprott,
But most unkindly missed him,

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The people formed a happy crowd,
Quite free from any vices,
And scorned the undertaker's shroud,
Though he reduced his prices;
And Mrs. Bell
Became quite well
(She suffered once from phthisis.)

And when young Phil, the local Nut,
Who sought the squire's daughter,
Was met by stern papa's "Tut-tut,"
He vowed a grim self-slaughter,
And drank a phial
Of substance vile,
Which proved but coloured water.

Then Alfred, too, renown was his,
The famous village bowler,
Received a ball upon his phiz,
But only lost a molar.
While Mr. Jones
Had bust no bones
That time he met the roller.

And so where Death itself had ceased,
The Sexton soon grew tired;
The graveyard had he nearly leased,
His picks and shovels hired,
When old McGown
Lost half-a-crown,
And thereupon expired.

The Sexton figured out his bill,
And, naturally elated,
Went in to hear them read the Will.
In which 'twas clearly stated
That old McGown
Be shipped to town
And quietly cremated.

This broke his heart, the Sexton pined,
His thoughts grew black as thunder,
And when at last the man resigned,
The Parish couldn't wonder.
And when he died
Of wounded pride,
The new man dug him under.

—S.E.