It was an ancient Easter bun,
   Its health and youth had fled;
“In days of yore I had some fun,
But now that troublous time’s begun,
   I’ll bear my cross,” it said.

“Alone, alone, and still unate!”
   In frenzied voice it cried,
It cursed the baker for its fate,
And then it lay inanimate –-
   The hot cross bun had died.

"Irish"
The Gadfly, 18 April 1906, p16