What foot is that disturbs my rest,
Which through my coffin lid hath press’d,
And caus’d my bones the air to feel?—
It is the parson’s horse’s heel!
’Tis hard so much as there’s to pay,
That corpses cannot quiet lay,
But are by cow or horse plough’d up,
For priests to reap a three-fold crop!
Through such a process they must pass,
The grave, the tombstone, and the grass,
And Easter Offering beside:—
These claims must never be denied!
What though they do the grass devour,
And leave their dung against the door!
Pay up,—say nought,—’What’s that to thou?’
It is the parson’s horse or cow!
I know the living dare not grumble,
Nor at the parson’s conduct stumble!
And when the simple truth is told,
Of dead men they can get no hold.
We thought no hammer was to sound,
Upon this consecrated ground,—
Yet cow or horse may grind our bones
And rub their sides against the stones!
Some think things so are constituted,
That masons’ tools are all polluted,
But that the parson’s horse or cow,
Like th’ Church, is consecrated too!
Thus they may gallop o’er our graves,
And split our coffins into halves;
In spite of widows tears and groans,
May pastime make of dead folks’ bones!
This is too hard for flesh and blood!
A thing which cannot be withstood;
A thing which inward grief imparts
To pious minds and tender hearts.
But men enthrall’d must never speak,
Nor for redress attempt to seek,
But with such creatures be content,
As Bishops have ordain’d and sent.