A Reverend Man does o’er his port complain,
Of such as would, by sanitary power,
Invade his ancient customary gain.
Beneath those arid mounds, that dead wall’s shade,
Where grows no turf above the mouldering heap,
All in their narrow cells together laid,
The former people of the parish sleep.
The queasy call of sewage-breathing morn,
The ox, urg’d bellowing to the butcher’s shed,
The crowd’s loud clamouring at his threatening horn,