No more shall rouse them from their loathly bed.
For them no more the chamber-light shall burn,
The busy doctor ply his daily care,
Nor children to their sire from school return,
And climb his knees the dreaded pest to share.
Good folks, impute not to their friends the fault,
If memory o’er their bones no tombstone raise;
Where there lie dozens huddled in one vault,
No art can mark the spot where each decays.
No doubt, in this revolting place are laid,