Whitchurch
Richard Shortridge. 1831.
Hark! what is that noise so mournful and slow,
That sends on the winds the tickings of woe,
In sound like the knell of a spirit that’s fled,
And tells us, alas! a brother is dead?
Yes, gone to the grave is he whom we lov’d
And lifeless the form that manfully mov’d,
The clods of the valley encompass his head,
This tombstone reminds us our brother is dead.