If we could write upon his gravestun’s face
A list of what he’d done to help this place,
We’d have a roll of honour to his fame,
But we should publish all our village shame.
There’d be a list of heirs and all their fights;
The sorrows and the heart-aches over rights;
There’d be the frowns, the snarls, the sneers and scorn
Out of the leavin’s of our dead men born.
There’d be the threats and mutt’rin’s of divorce
And all the griefs that spring from Trouble’s source.