My father used to repeat one stanza of an old song; I wonder whether the
remainder still exists in any living memory. That one stanza ran:--
"The roaring boys of Pakefield,
Oh, how they all do thrive!
They had but one poor parson,
And him they buried alive."
Whether the prosperity of Pakefield was to be dated or derived from the
fact of their burying their "one poor parson" is a matter of dangerous
speculation, and had better be left in safe obscurity; else other places
might be tempted to make trial of the successful plan. But can any one
send a copy of the whole song?