Where’s Grandad
The hearse had been booked at the Co-op
for the Friday before the Goose Fair.
We paid for a top notch send off,
with a carriage and six to bear.
The hearse was well behind schedule
on the morning we were burying grandad.
The wind was howling and the sky was dark,
and it began to rain quite bad.
The coffin lay on the front room table
with the flag and white lilies on top.
My dad was anxiously twitching the curtains
until he saw the carriage and horses stop.
It had finally arrived to take grandad
to his resting place in the ground.
Six solemn bearers came into the house
and they never made a sound.
In the hearse they carefully placed the coffin,
then returned to their seating places.
But then they galloped off down the street
leaving us with rain soaked faces.
We ran to our cars and tried to catch up,
but the traffic lights didn’t go our way.
The next time we saw the shiny oak coffin
was by the grave, with the vicar about to pray.
Under umbrellas we gathered and watched
as the coffin was slowly lowered down.
Well after all that it didn’t turn out so bad,
except that we were at the burial of a Mrs Brown.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Related quotes
Future Imperfect
Beneath a gray and weeping sky
I watched a horse drawn hearse go by
A sight we very rarely see
It seems to have more dignity
Than any slowly driven limousine
Two horses black as ebony
A well matched pair walk sedately
Almost as if the horses know
The must put on a finer show
Than any slowly driven limousine
The hearse itself is gleaming black
With etched glass windows in the back
Through which it’s possible to see
The coffin more respectfully
Than any slowly driven limousine
The cortege as it passes by
Is guaranteed to catch the eye
It is a sight that seemingly
Most people would prefer to see
Than any slowly driven limousine
Though fashions change there is a cost
The sense of dignity is lost
Although I’m sure they do their best
Nothing attracts less interest
Than any slowly driven limousine
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Death of the Rev. Dr. Wilson
'Twas in the year of 1888 and on the 17th of January
That the late Rev. Dr. Wilson's soul fled away;
The generous-hearted Dr. had been ailing for some time,
But death, with his dart, did pierce the heart of the learned divine.
He was a man of open countenance and of great ability,
And late minister of Free St. Paul's Church, Dundee,
And during the twenty-nine years he remained as minister in Dundee
He struggled hard for the well-being of the community.
He was the author of several works concerning great men,
In particular the Memoirs of Dr. Candlish and Christ turning His face towards Jerusalem;
Which is well worthy of perusal, I'm sure,
Because the style is concise and the thoughts clear and pure.
And as for his age, he was in his eightieth year,
And has left a family of one son and five daughters dear,
And for his loss they will shed many a tear,
Because in their hearts they loved him most dear.
He was a man of a very kindly turn,
And many of his old members for him will mourn,
Because as a preacher he was possessed of courage bold,
Just like one of Covenanting heroes of old.
But I hope he is landed safe on Canaan's bright shore,
To sing with bright angels for evermore
Around that golden throne where God's family doth meet
To sing songs night and day, most sacred and sweet.
The coffin containing the remains was brought on Tuesday evening from Edinboro,
And as the relatives witnessed its departure their hearts were full of sorrow,
And the remains were laid inside Free St. Paul's Church, Dundee,
And interred on Wednesday in the Western Cemetery.
The funeral service began at half-past one o'clock in the afternoon,
And with people the church was filled very soon,
And the coffin was placed in the centre of the platform,
And the lid was covered with wreaths which did the coffin adorn.
There were beautiful wreaths from the grandchildren of the deceased,
Whom I hope is now from all troubles released
Also there were wreaths from Mrs and Miss Young, Windsor Street, Dundee,
Which certainly were most beautiful to see.
Besides the tributes of Miss Morrison and Miss H. Morrison were a beautiful sight,
Also the tributes of Miss Strong and Mr I. Martin White,
Also Mrs and the Misses Henderson's, West Park, Dundee,
Besides the Misses White Springrove were magnificent to me.
The members and office-bearers of the church filled the pews on the right,
Which was a very impressive and solemn sight;
And psalms and hymns were sung by the congregation,
And the Rev. W. I. Cox concluded the service with great veneration.
Then the coffin was carried from the church and placed in the hearse,
While the congregation allowed the friends to disperse,
Then followed the congregation without delay,
Some to join the procession, while others went home straightaway.
The procession consisted of the hearse and 47 carriages no less,
Which were drawn up in the Nethergate, I do confess,
And as the cortege passed slowly along the Nethergate,
Large crowds watched the procession and ungrudgingly did wait.
And when the hearse reached the cemetery the Rev. R. Waterson offered up a prayer,
Then the coffin was lowered into the grave by the pall-bearers there;
'Twas then the friends began to my for their sorrow was profound,
Then along with the people assembled there they left the burying-ground.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harder Than A Coffin Nail
Harden than a coffin nail
Bend the heaven up into hell
Harden than a coffin nail
Hahahahahaha
Harden than a coffin nail
Harden than a coffin nail
Harden than a coffin nail
Harden than a coffin nail
Hahahaha
Harden than a coffin nail
Hahahahaha
Harden than a coffin nail
Avril Lavigne
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song performed by by Papa Roach
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Little White Hearse
Somebody’s baby was buried to-day –
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the sidewalk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid – out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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In the Dead of night
In the dead of night, a Sufi began to weep.
He said, 'This world is like a closed coffin, in which
We are shut and in which, through our ignorance,
We spend our lives in folly and desolation.
When Death comes to open the lid of the coffin,
Each one who has wings will fly off to Eternity,
But those without will remain locked in the coffin.
So, my friends, before the lid of this coffin is taken off,
Do all you can to become a bird of the Way to God;
Do all you can to develop your wings and your feathers.'
poem by Farid ud-Din Attar Abu Hamid bin Abu Bakr Ibrahim
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Tract
I will teach you my townspeople
how to perform a funeral
for you have it over a troop
of artists-
unless one should scour the world-
you have the ground sense necessary.
See! the hearse leads.
I begin with a design for a hearse.
For Christ's sake not black-
nor white either - and not polished!
Let it be whethered - like a farm wagon -
with gilt wheels (this could be
applied fresh at small expense)
or no wheels at all:
a rough dray to drag over the ground.
Knock the glass out!
My God - glass, my townspeople!
For what purpose? Is it for the dead
to look out or for us to see
the flowers or the lack of them -
or what?
To keep the rain and snow from him?
He will have a heavier rain soon:
pebbles and dirt and what not.
Let there be no glass -
and no upholstery, phew!
and no little brass rollers
and small easy wheels on the bottom -
my townspeople, what are you thinking of?
A rough plain hearse then
with gilt wheels and no top at all.
On this the coffin lies
by its own weight.
No wreathes please-
especially no hot house flowers.
Some common memento is better,
something he prized and is known by:
his old clothes - a few books perhaps -
God knows what! You realize
how we are about these things
my townspeople -
something will be found - anything
even flowers if he had come to that.
So much for the hearse.
For heaven's sake though see to the driver!
Take off the silk hat! In fact
that's no place at all for him -
up there unceremoniously
dragging our friend out to his own dignity!
Bring him down - bring him down!
Low and inconspicuous! I'd not have him ride
on the wagon at all - damn him! -
the undertaker's understrapper!
Let him hold the reins
and walk at the side
and inconspicuously too!
Then briefly as to yourselves:
Walk behind - as they do in France,
seventh class, or if you ride
Hell take curtains! Go with some show
of inconvenience; sit openly -
to the weather as to grief.
Or do you think you can shut grief in?
What - from us? We who have perhaps
nothing to lose? Share with us
share with us - it will be money
in your pockets.
Go now
I think you are ready.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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There Is No Poem
there is no poem that can stop
this mess
this furniture of the room are not in place
the table is under the rain
outside
the chairs are crumpled like paper
in the drain
the books are opening their pages to the skies
the pens are shooting like
arrows in the air
no one can stop the dead
not this poem that only counts
those who want to be buried
no one can stop the grief
not this poem, not that poem
no poem can stop the flood of all emotions
no poem can resist
the burden of carrying all these
like a carriage like a coffin.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Repetitive Of A Nostalgia, A Moment Ago
there is no poem that can stop
this mess
this furniture of the room are not in place
the table is under the rain
outside
the chairs are crumpled like paper
in the drain
the books are opening their pages to the skies
the pens are shooting like
arrows in the air
no one can stop the dead
not this poem that only counts
those who want to be buried
no one can stop the grief
not this poem, not that poem
no poem can stop the flood of all emotions
no poem can resist
the burden of carrying all these
like a carriage like a coffin.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffin Car
Coffin car, shes riding a coffin car.
People watching her with tender eyes,
Friends whispering in kindly words,
Children running, waving hands,
Telling each other, how pretty she is.
Coffin car, she likes to ride a coffin car.
Friends making ways for the first time,
People throwing kisses for the first time,
Showering flowers, ringing bells,
Telling each other, how nice she is.
Coffin car, shes riding a coffin car.
Wives showing tears for the first time,
Husband taking their hats off for the first time,
Crushing their handkerchiefs, rubbing their nose,
Telling each other, how good she is.
Half the world is dead anyway,
The other half is asleep.
And life is killing her,
Telling her to join the dead.
So evry day, she likes to ride a coffin car,
A flower covered coffin car,
Pretending she was dead.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coffin Car
Coffin car, shes riding a coffin car.
People watching her with tender eyes,
Friends whispering in kindly words,
Children running, waving hands,
Telling each other, how pretty she is.
Coffin car, she likes to ride a coffin car.
Friends making ways for the first time,
People throwing kisses for the first time,
Showering flowers, ringing bells,
Telling each other, how nice she is.
Coffin car, shes riding a coffin car.
Wives showing tears for the first time,
Husband taking their hats off for the first time,
Crushing their handkerchiefs, rubbing their nose,
Telling each other, how good she is.
Half the world is dead anyway,
The other half is asleep.
And life is killing her,
Telling her to join the dead.
So evry day, she likes to ride a coffin car,
A flower covered coffin car,
Pretending she was dead.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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See That My Grave Is Kept Clean
(first releaseblind lemon jefferson)
Well theres one kind of favor Ill ask for you
Well theres one kind of favor Ill ask for you
Theres just one kind of favor Ill ask for you
You can see that my grave is kept clean.
And theres two white horses following me
And theres two white horses following me
I got two white horses following me
Waiting on my burying ground.
Did you ever hear that coffin sound
Did you ever hear that coffin sound
Did you ever hear that coffin sound
Means another poor boy is underground.
Did you ever hear them church bells toll
Did you ever hear them church bells toll
Did you ever hear them church bells toll
Means another poor boy is dead and gone.
And my heart stopped beating and my hands turned cold
And my heart stopped beating and my hands turned cold
And my heart stopped beating and my hands turned cold
Now I believe what the Bible told.
Theres just one last favor Ill ask for you
And theres one last favor Ill ask for you
Theres just one last favor Ill ask for you
See that my grave is kept clean.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My own funeral, I'd like to be laid out in a coffin in my own house. I would like my coffin to be put in the double parlor, and I would like all the flowers to be white.
Rise after Dusk
Out of the Coffin and into my hearse
I'm hunting for your blood you can be my first
Don't try to run honey, you're as good as dead
I'm gonna dye you're milky skin a pretty shade of red
I'm gonna leave you lifeless, you're blood so priceless
and now you're mine, don't even try to fight this
Now in this darkest hour, you're blood I will devour
I love every minute of this, and I love this power
Out of the coffin and into your bed
haunting all your dreams, honey you're the undead
Walk into the night baby, this is your life
You've got the taste blood, now the make the whole world die.
poem by Justin Schock
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In Tara's Halls
A MAN I praise that once in Tara's Hals
Said to the woman on his knees, 'Lie still.
My hundredth year is at an end. I think
That something is about to happen, I think
That the adventure of old age begins.
To many women I have said, ''Lie still,''
And given everything a woman needs,
A roof, good clothes, passion, love perhaps,
But never asked for love; should I ask that,
I shall be old indeed.'
Thereon the man
Went to the Sacred House and stood between
The golden plough and harrow and spoke aloud
That all attendants and the casual crowd might hear.
'God I have loved, but should I ask return
Of God or woman, the time were come to die.'
He bade, his hundred and first year at end,
Diggers and carpenters make grave and coffin;
Saw that the grave was deep, the coffin sound,
Summoned the generations of his house,
Lay in the coffin, stopped his breath and died.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Al Cobdogla's Hearse
The mood in the town of Warramine
Was grim, and getting worse,
For stuck on the town's old hump-back bridge
Was Al Cobdogla's hearse,
The brakes had failed and the motor quit
And the footplates wedged each side,
The springs had sprung, and the body hung
On Emily's final ride!
The coffin lodged in the back was black,
As black as Emily's sin,
There wasn't a man in the great outback
That hadn't been out and in,
For Emily Gray was more than gay
In the old sense of the word,
She only charged a dollar a spin
Out there in the cattle yard.
For Emily was an outdoor girl
She couldn't abide inside,
She liked the sun on her naked legs
And a good bit more beside,
She'd run stark naked under the trees
When the wattle began to bloom,
And wives would lock their men in the bar
On a Saturday afternoon.
‘The blatant hussy, ' - ‘The brazen bitch! '
The women would often say,
The men would mutter and dropp their heads,
‘It's only Emily Gray! '
They found her lying without a stitch,
Or that's what somebody said,
And beat her bloody with candlesticks,
So now, poor Emily's dead!
She lay in the coffin, wedged in tight,
As tight as the hearse on the bridge,
The men got worried and pulled her out
And stuck her in somebody's fridge!
‘She won't last long in the heat out here,
It's over a hundred today, '
It seemed that the women of Warramine
Were stuck with Emily Gray!
They pushed and heaved, pummelled and thrust
But nothing could budge that hearse,
The only bridge into Warramine
Was blocked, for better or worse,
The farmers couldn't get into the pub,
The townsfolk, locked in the town,
While Emily Gray, quite naked lay
With the men, all milling around.
They built a fabulous highway bridge,
Four lanes, both in and out,
While Al Cobdogla's ancient hearse
Is part of the tourist route,
And Emily went to her final rest
To the cheers of the men, and cursed,
But Warramine boasts its ‘Emily Bridge'
Thanks to Cobdogla's hearse!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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My Coffin
Deeming that I was due to die
I framed myself a coffin;
So full of graveyard zeal was I,
I set the folks a-laughing.
I made it snugly to my fit,
My joinering was honest;
And sometimes in it I would sit,
And fancy I was non est.
I stored it on my cabin shelf
Forever to remind me,
When I was tickled with myself,
That Death was close behind me.
Let's be prepared, I used to say,
E're in the Dark we launch us:
And so with boding day by day
I kept me coffin-conscious.
Then came that winter dark as doom,
No firing wood had I;
My shack was icy as a tomb
And I was set to die.
But e'er the losing of my wits
I saw that coffin there,
S smashing the damned thing to bits
I made a gorgeous flare.
I never saw a flame so bright,
So goldenly divine,
As starred the blackness of the night
That boneyard box of mine.
And now I go forth coffin-shy,
With no more carnal fears,
For radiantly sure am I
I'll stack a hundred years.
poem by Robert William Service
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Inside That Coffin
Inside that coffin
It is where family wisdom comes from
Where we have been parented
Where a minority of this family rest.
INSIDE THAT COFFIN
It is where the beloved one rest
For god have sent her there
Where she thirst no more
INSIDE THAT COFFIN
A silver rest inside
Thou its inside is filled with darkness
INSIDE THAT COFFIN
I have proven
Every dark cloud, there is a silver lining.
poem by Nengovhela Murendeni
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Ritual
Every morning he goes to the church
though not religious, not really much
tidily dressed, looking so neat
the routine is a way, for him a habit
he prays for nothing, nothing he wants
it's all ritual, the prayers he chants
Years roll by, he grows frail and old
till he is laid in a coffin, dark and cold
the hearse carries him to the church he went
there is no prayer, he remains silent.
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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John Betjeman, Poet
Six distinguished men, soaked to the skin,
others with the ladies following,
a coffin, underslung,
a walk of half a mile along a rough churchgoing path,
the coffin swinging like a cradle,
in driving Cornish rain;
an almost merry funeral,
green and flowered with thought,
full of the memory of laughter
There’s a photo – he's
about two or three years old –
this is a child born
with fear on his face
at having been born
to death; (the cradle
swinging like a coffin) :
instead of looking at the
birdie in the camera, it’s the void he sees.
how to fill the intervening years?
walking just as Pooh Bear walks,
(his beloved, patched teddy bear
which accompanied him for life
had taught him how to walk)
solemn, careful, tubby, smallish steps,
hopping across a road
as if civilisation had taken him by surprise;
squashed pork pie hat concealing
lugubrious face, immobile, melancholy
when not exploding into laughter;
laughter, beauty, won the day.
how to fill the intervening years?
with the gaiety of company, love of women,
declarations of love and offers of marriage,
love affairs for all of ten minutes, sometimes lifelong;
with beauty, observation, comedy; the gift
of finding life one long party is perhaps of those
who've not forgotten death;
a sad face walking so alone,
leaving behind him in the lightest verse,
which won a nation's laurelled love, writing of
the absurdities of class, the built beauty of
a nation’s heritage, washed by sea and custom,
wind and Cornish rocks and shore;
an unspoken magnificence; hints of eternity;
joy; delight, and eloquence; and laughter.
Six distinguished men, soaked to the skin,
others with the ladies following,
a coffin, underslung,
a walk of half a mile along a rough churchending path,
the coffin swinging like a cradle,
in driving Cornish rain;
an almost merry funeral,
green and flowered with thought,
full of the memory of laughter.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Empty eulogy
Life is a funeral
With a flat-tired hearse
I am just another corpse,
Forced to walk in blistering sun
Stumbling towards a grave,
A service for no one
Yet when dirt falls,
The unholy churchyard is full
They smile, laughing
As they bury the damned
Not even bothering
To close the coffin lid
Above me, the bright sky
Slips farther away
As dirt clouds my eyes
Buried deeper all the time
poem by Joyce Rugg
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