The whistle’s shrieking, and the piston’s stroke
No more shall rouse them, though they mock the dead.
For them, if chance the hearts of loved ones yearn,
No weeping mourners tend the grave with care,
No children to this spot their footsteps turn
To seek the dead ’mid desolation bare.
Oft did the town of Leeds their labours know,
Their efforts oft the way to progress cleared;
How lie they now, forgotten, cold, and low!
How is a patriot townsman’s name revered!