You lads whose trade is liming
The charnel earth anew,
A lad that has been rhyming
Takes off his cap to you.
The lads I knew at Knighton
I’ve shot and stabbed and drown’d
In verse that will not brighten
Lads still above the ground.
And those that you’ve put under,
That lie as still as stones,
The years will only plunder
The flesh from off their bones.
’Twas hard for lads in my time
To find new mournful staves,
And so I thought: ‘‘Tis high time
All Shropshire’s turned to graves.’
So take this book, and read on
The rhymes that I have made,
Till Doomsday breaks on Bredon
To end our ancient trade.