Five-and-twenty years have gone

    Since old William Pollexfen

    Laid his strong bones down in death

    By his wife Elizabeth

    In the grey stone tomb he made.

    And after twenty years they laid

    In that tomb by him and her

    His son George， the astrologer；

    And Masons drove from miles away

    To scatter the Acacia spray

    Upon a melancholy man

    Who had ended where his breath began.

    Many a son and daughter lies

    Far from the customary skies，

    The Mall and Eades‘s grammar school，

    In London or in Liverpool；

    But where is laid the sailor John

    That so many lands had known，

    Quiet lands or unquiet seas

    Where the Indians trade or Japanese？

    He never found his rest ashore，

    Moping for one voyage more.

    Where have they laid the sailor John？

    And yesterday the youngest son，

    A humorous， unambitious man，

    Was buried near the astrologer，

    Yesterday in the tenth year

    Since he who had been contented long，

    A nobody in a great throng，

    Decided he must journey home，

    Now that his fiftieth year had come，

    And ‘Mr. Alfred’ be again

    Upon the lips of common men

    Who carried in their memory

    His childhood and his family.

    At all these death-beds women heard

    A visionary white sea-bird

    Lamenting that a man should die；

    And with that cry I have raised my cry.