The poems here are suitable for the funeral of a person who had a keen hobby or was particularly devoted to a particular occupation or job.
Carpentry
I HEAR America singing
By Walt Whitman
I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutters song the ploughboys, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother or of the young wife at work or of the girl sewing or washing
Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day
At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
Fishing
Trout Fishing
By Eunice Lamberton, 1873
Give me a rod of the split bamboo,
a rainy day and a fly or two,
a mountain stream where the eddies play,
and mists hang low o’er the winding way,
Give me a haunt by the furling brook,
A hidden spot in a mossy nook,
No sound save hum of the drowsy bee,
or lone bird’s tap on the hollow tree.
The world may roll with it’s busy throng,
And phantom scenes on it’s way along,
It’s stocks may rise, or it’s stocks may fall,
Ah! What care I for it’s baubles all?
I cast my fly o’er the troubled rill,
Luring the beauties by magic skill,
With mind at rest and a heart at ease,
And drink delight at the balmy breeze.
A lusty trout to my glad surprise,
Speckled and bright on the crest arise,
Then splash and plunge in a dazzling whirl,
Hope springs anew as the wavelets curl.
Gracefully swinging from left to right,
Action so gentle- motion so slight,
Tempting, enticing, on craft intent,
Till yielding tip by the game is bent
Drawing in slowly, then letting go
Under the ripples where mosses grow
Doubting my fortune, lost in a dream,
Blessing the land of forest and stream.