Bury him ! Lor'! Why, Silas boy, what put that in your head?

Your Grandsir fell at Bunker Hill, but then he was n't dead. He lay there faint-like for a while, but finally up he got, About the time the redcoats charged, and sent our men to pot.

When all the Yankees ran away, why, Grandsir he ran too, - Which, Silas, if he had n't done, there'd be no me nor you.

There was a student in the fight, whose clothes he used to buy;

Just as our men began to run, your Grandsir caught his eye, And, as they were not far apart, he thought it was but right To say, "I hope I see you well," for Grandsir was polite. The student stared, and then sung out, "Why, Nosey, is that you,

Without your nose ?" Your Grandsir felt, and sure enough 't was true; -

He'd wondered why so queerly he had lost the sense of smell, -

His musket, going off, had taken off his nose as well.

Have I his picture ? Yes, I have; but 't is n't very good. The man that took it did it, though, as nicely as he could. It was a pleasant-spoken man, that turned up years ago, Who cut folks out in paper, and put black behind to show. But Grandsir Peavy 'd lost his nose, and so the picture's queer,

And not exactly like a head, but rather like a square.

Yes, Silas, we should all be proud of Grandsir, as you say.

He fought and bled for liberty upon that glorious day. We're luckier than most folks. Be they uppish as they will,

They did n't all have ancestors that fell at Bunker Hill.

B.W.