Tom Paine

An Englishman was Thomas Paine Who bled for liberty; But while his fight was far from vain He died in poverty: Though some are of the sober thinking 'Twas due to drinking. Yet this is what appeals to me: Cobbet, a friend, loved him so well He sailed across the surly sea To raw and rigid New Rochelle: With none to say: 'Take him not from us!' He raped the grave of Thomas. And in his library he set These bones so woe-begone; I have no doubt his eyes were wet To scan that skeleton. That grinning skull from which in season Emerged the Age of Reason. Then Cobbet in his turn lay dead, And auctioneering tones Over his chattels rudely said: 'Who wants them bloody bones?' None did, so they were scattered far And God knows where they are. A friend of Franklin and of Pitt He lived a stormy span; The flame of liberty he lit And rang the Rights of Man. Yet pilgrims from Vermont and Maine In hero worship seek in vain The bones of Thomas Paine.