Since old William Pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid
In that tomb by him and her
His son George， the astrologer；
And Masons drove from miles away
To scatter1 the Acacia spray
Upon a melancholy2 man
Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies
Far from the customary skies，
The Mall and Eadess grammar school，
In London or in Liverpool；
But where is laid the sailor John
That so many lands had known，
Quiet lands or unquiet seas
Where the Indians trade or Japanese？
He never found his rest ashore3，
Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John？
And yesterday the youngest son，
A humorous， unambitious man，
Was buried near the astrologer，
Yesterday in the tenth year
Since he who had been contented4 long，
A nobody in a great throng5，
Decided6 he must journey home，
Now that his fiftieth year had come，
And Mr. Alfred be again
Upon the lips of common men
Who carried in their memory
His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard
A visionary white sea-bird
Lamenting7 that a man should die；
And with that cry I have raised my cry.