Old Andrews of the hut is dead,
And many n child appears,
While slowly "dust to dust" is read,
Around his grave in tears.
So he is gone, where small and great,
And poor, and high, and low,
And Dives, proud in worldly state,
And Lazarus must go.
May we among the Just be found,
Though short our sojourn here,
Who, when the Trump of Doom shall sound,
May hear it without fear.