“You see those mothers squabbling there?”
Remarks the man of the cemetery.
One says in tears,‘'Tis mine lies here!’
Another,‘ Nay, mine, you Pharisee!’
Another,‘ How dare you move my flowers
And put your own on this grave of ours!’
But all their children were laid therein
At different times, like sprats in a tin.
“And then the main drain had to cross,
And we moved the lot some nights ago,
And packed them away in the general foss
With hundreds more. But their folks do n't know,
And as well cry over a new-laid drain
As anything else, to ease your pain!”