It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed,
  Where the spider-webs swing from the beams overhead,
  And the sun, siftin' in through the dirt and the mold
  Of the winder's dim pane, specks it over with gold.
  Its curtains are tattered, its cushions are worn,
  It's a kind of a ghost of a carriage, forlorn,
  And the dust from the roof settles down like a pall
  On the sorrowin' shape of the old carryall.

  It was built long ago, when the world seemed ter be
  A heaven, jest made up for Mary and me,
  And my mind wanders back to that first happy ride
  When she sat beside me,—my beauty and bride.
  Ah, them were the days when the village was new
  And folks took time to live, as God meant 'em ter do;
  And there's many a huskin' and quiltin' and ball
  That we drove to and back in the old carryall.

  And here in the paint are the marks of the feet
  Where a little form climbed ter the high-fashioned seat,
  And soft baby fingers them curtains have swung,
  And a curly head's nestled the cushions among;
  And then come the gloom of that black, bitter day
  When "Thy will be done" looked so wicked ter say
  As we drove to the grave, while the rain seemed to fall
  Like the tears of the sky on the old carryall.

  And so it has served us through sunshine and cloud,
  Through fun'rals and weddin's, from bride-wreath ter shroud;
  It's old and it's rusty, it's shaky and lame,
  But I love every j'int of its rickety frame.
  And it's restin' at last, for its race has been run,
  It's lived out its life and its work has been done,
  And I hope, in my soul, at the last trumpet call
  I'll have done mine as well as the old carryall.