As the coals to their cellar we hurried;
Not an eye could see were they many or few
In the crypt where our cobbles we buried.
We buried them gaily, at luncheon time,
All Acts of Parliament spurning;
There were "Kitchens," composed of slate and slime,
And Wallsend, "dimly burning."
No fussing servants surveyed our cart—
(If they had, we'd have kept them shivering)
—They were busy serving the family tart