THE DOUBTFUL ONES

They lie about, the naughty folk, a-mingling with the rest, And just so green the grave-grass on their mounds as on the best; For Nature’s poor at morals, and to her they’re all the same, With their virtues no great matter and their vices no great shame. Tom White bides there: they say he slew his first to wed another, And that’s the hill that hides Jack Ford, as robbed his own grandmother. This lump of earth, where dandelions be keeping such a state, Is Katherine Jay’s, the baby’s friend, once known as “cruel Kate.” They dug up thirteen childer in her garden, so ’tis said; And when they ran the creature down, she’d cut her evil thread. Near by we teeled Bart. Coombstock—one as took his own life too: He hanged hisself at seventy-three, though why for no man knew. And Martin Cobley, in a pit beside they godly Foxes, Did six months of his middle time for breaking the alms boxes. Where yonder row of Caunters lie—a famed and far-spread clan— Have crept their black sheep, Rupert, him once called “the gentleman.” A reckless love-hunter was he, and made an end of life When Noah Bassett shot him dead for playing with his wife. Poor Nelly Dingle, buried by the lich-gate on the left, Burned six good stacks of wheat the night they flung her out for theft; And they small hillocks, down-along, of babies side by side, Be “chrisomers,” as never got baptised afore they died, There do they rest—the doubtful ones—and sleep so sweet and sound As any proper saint of God that ever went to ground; But when the graves be opened and they birds begin to sing— Lord! Won’t it be a funny dish to set before the King!