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"Ned drives about in buggies,
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a _dullard_,
And Ned a _genius_?'
"You'll cut him with a shilling,"
Exclaimed the man of writs:
"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,
"Sir Lawyer, as befits,
And portion both their fortunes
Unto their several wits."
"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said;
"On your commands I wait."
"Be silent, sir," says Brentford,
"A plague upon your prate!
Come take your pen and paper,
And write as I dictate."
The will as Brentford spoke it
Was writ and signed and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
And turn'd him round and dozed;
And next week in the churchyard
The good old King reposed.
Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,
Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings
Poor Edward showed his grief:
Tom hid his fat white countenance
In his pocket-handkerchief.
Ned's eyes were full of weeping,
He falter'd in his walk;
Tom never shed a tear,
But onwards he did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn
As any catafalque.


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