Classic Poem

To raise Money with the Dead.

I.

'Tis no uncommon Thing, we know.
To move the Living-Race;
But by an Art, divinely rare !
The Dead must now give Place.

II.

Right Master T** L * R , root 'em up,
One Hole will well suffice;
What! single Graves for mould'ring Clay!
Parsons are now Ground wise.

III.

We want more Room, the Church's too small —
This our Whisler 's Plea;
But entre noas his dirty Soul,
Grasps at fresh Burial Fee.
IV.

Shame to such sacrilegious Acts!
What! rouse the sleeping Dust? —
Consider, T** L * R , Time wings on,
Return to Dust You must.

V.

Then ask yourself, how it would grate
Such After-Treatment giv'n? —
Replace your Dead, or much I fear
You'll miss the Way to Heav'n.

VI.

Your mumping Quality I know;
What! beg of all who come;
Fie! — blush Content! — we'll down, no more —
So keep your List at Home.