Excerpt from City Festivals They marched your body through the street, 'neath banners draped in black. Your funeral sermon glittered well: it told how brave you died; The tears your poor old mother shed, were partly tears of pride. None left to-day to lean upon but country and her God, She crept from yonder poor-house door to kiss that bit of sod. It's hard, my boy, but nations all are likely to forget; And God must take His own good time to make them pay a debt. The sweet forget-me-nots that grow above your faithful breast, Are types of His good memory, boy, and He knows what is best. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.