Robert Stephen Hawker (1803–1875)

THERE lies a cold corpse upon the sands

Down by the rolling sea;

Close up the eyes and straighten the hands

As a Christian man’s should be.

Bury it deep, for the good of my soul,

Six feet below the ground;

Let the sexton come and the death-bell toll

And good men stand around.

Lay it among the churchyard stones,

Where the priest hath bless’d the clay:

I cannot leave the unburied bones,

And I fain would go my way.