Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourn'd
This priest devout;
Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep murn'd
The bones of Prout!
Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column
His place of rest,
Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek yet solemn,
Sits mid the blest.
Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke
O'erawed sheep-stealers;
And rogues fear'd more the good man's single look
Than forty Peelers.
He's gone; and discord soon I ween will visit
The land with quarrels;
And the foul demon vex with stills illicit
The village morals.
No fatal chance could happen more to cross
The public wishes;
And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,
Except the fishes;
For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring
Preferred to gammon.
Grim Death has broke his angling-rod; his berring
Delights the salmon.
No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,
For fasting pittance,—
Arts which Saint Peter loved, whose gate to Prout
Gave prompt admittance.
Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep
His sainted dust;
The bad man's death it well becomes to weep,—
Not so the just.