The snorting puff of carboniferous smoke, The engine clattering from the loco-shed, 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! Let not ambition seek for the cold clay A homely tomb from sacrilege secure; Nor grand men seek when they have passed away A safer six feet title than the poor. The mighty alderman, the men of power, And all our beauties, all of wealth the slaves, Must take their chance that there may come an hour When railroad sleepers share their quiet graves. (_Fourteen verses omitted_). For thee, who, mindful of the thus outraged dead, Dost in these lines set down their graveyard’s state, If chance, by their perusal, some be led To test the truth of what thou dost relate, Haply some ancient Kirkgate dame may say, “Methinks I’ve seen him here at eve and morn, As past the Parish Church he’s made his way I’ve watched his look,――half pity and half scorn. “Here, near the base of yonder noble tower, That stands with venerable head so high, Repose the dead, neglected hour by hour, Unheeded by the crowd that passes by. “Round through yon bridge upon his journey borne, By some strange fancy led he seemed to stray, Then on the other bank he’d gaze forlorn, Then looking disappointed turn away. “One morn I saw him on the railway’s side, Among the slabs, some broken, some moss-grown; Once more he came: he looked again, he sighed, Then ceased the search for the forgotten stone. “And then I saw that ere he went away One little leaflet from a book he tore, On which he wrote this simple poet’s lay, Which some one found attached to yonder door.” AN EPITAPH. Here rest, on either side this mound of earth, Neglected dead, forgotten and unknown, Ere science learnt the iron horse’s worth The grave had marked them and had claimed its own. True to their country, to their town sincere, Thus does posterity their deeds commend, And takes their graves to make a railroad here, For fear their usefulness with life should end. No farther seek fresh merits to impose, Let the poor battered stones sink in the sod, Where rich and poor in trembling earth repose, To wait, ’mid engine shrieks, the trump of God. From _The Yorkshireman’s Comic Annual_. 1885. ――――:o:―――― NEWALL’S BUILDINGS.