You speak to me of patience — take your pick,
Here lie the bones of sundry patient men.
A sweaty hour or so should do the trick;
You sermons roused ’em once — why not again?

‘Death comes to all?’  Yes, truly, and the fear
Of righteous hellfire kept ’em all in line.
And now my dear old ma is buried here —
Today, you see the last of me and mine.

The tyranny of church and squire is past!
Three hundred year my folk and all their kin
Have laboured ‘by thy leave’.  But now, at last
MacDonald and the Labourites are in!

My children read and write as good as you;
They'll not be clearin’ up your bloody mess.
Nor fightin’ for their king and country, too;
I’ve left the burial fee — Oh, aye, God Bless!