He foam’d at the mouth with the rage he felt And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, That rascal Joe would be at me I know, But zounds let him spare me now. Then out they sent the Prentices, The fit it left him weak, He look’d at his brothers with ghastly eyes, And faintly struggled to speak. All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, And the judgment now must be— But brothers I took care of you, So pray take care of me! I have made candles of infants fat The Sextons have been my slaves, I have bottled babes unborn, and dried Hearts and livers from rifled graves. And my Prentices now will surely come And carve me bone from bone, And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave Shall never have rest in my own. Bury me in lead when I am dead, My brethren I intreat, And see the coffin weigh’d I beg Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. And let it be solder’d closely down Strong as strong can be I implore, And put it in a patent coffin, That I may rise no more. If they carry me off in the patent coffin Their labour will be in vain, Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker Who lives by St. Martin’s lane. And bury me in my brother’s church For that will safer be, And I implore lock the church door And pray take care of the key. And all night long let three stout men The vestry watch within, To each man give a gallon of beer And a keg of Holland’s gin; Powder and ball and blunder-buss To save me if he can, And eke five guineas if he shoot A resurrection man. And let them watch me for three weeks My wretched corpse to save, For then I think that I may stink Enough to rest in my grave. The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, His eyes grew deadly dim, Short came his breath and the struggle of death Distorted every limb. They put him in lead when he was dead And shrouded up so neat, And they the leaden coffin weigh Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. They had it solder’d closely down And examined it o’er and o’er, And they put it in a patent coffin That he might rise no more. For to carry him off in a patent coffin Would they thought be but labour in vain, So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker Who lives by St. Martin’s lane. In his brother’s church they buried him That safer he might be, They lock’d the door and would not trust The Sexton with the key. And three men in the vestry watch To save him if they can, And should he come there to shoot they swear A resurrection man. And the first night by lanthorn light Thro’ the church-yard as they went, A guinea of gold the sexton shewed That Mister Joseph sent. But conscience was tough, it was not enough And their honesty never swerved, And they bade him go with Mister Joe To the Devil as he deserved. So all night long by the vestry fire They quaff’d their gin and ale, And they did drink as you may think And told full many a tale. The second night by lanthorn light Thro’ the church-yard as they went, He whisper’d anew and shew’d them two That Mister Joseph sent.