Dig deep and wide, Boy,

Deep and wide.

I’ll shade the lamp.

This a job for darkness.

And use the wooden spade,

So the metal blade will not sing out our place.

Aye, a task for the dead of night;

What the Sun doesn’t see,

The Moon will hold close.

Set by the turf.

 

Who are they?

What matters that?

See, these cold hands were wont to swing a scythe,

The calloused palms tell of it:

They’ll not swing one again.

These torn feet, scarred with lines of ink,

A miner, or some digger of iron:

He's set aside his pick.

And this ruined face, shattered by the bullet,

Who’ll know him now, or who his smile once won:

He’ll not smile again.

 

That’s deep enow, Boy,

And plenty wide.

I’ll steady the horse lest the cart clatter.

Dwell not on that you lift;

T’is but packages, their contents spilled.

Lift, swing, place,

Lift, swing, place,

That’s the way.

 

Lay them gently in the deep dark,

Shovel the soil softly,

And re-spread the turf like a cottage quilt.

They shall sleep sound,

Silent and undisturbed by martyrdom.

Un-noticed.

Unmissed.

 

Aye, perhaps a few will be found absent

From the homes of the poor.

There’ll be an empty stool by the range,

A child that'll never know it’s father’s hand,

And Frost and women will weep.

But they'll not be missed in the Houses that Matter.

There they shall congratulate each other,

And each tell the other how brave they were,

And enquire into the health of the poor Mayor,

And raise a crystal glass to toast

Gunfire and The Gallows!

 

Come, Boy! Lead the horse away.

I’ll follow it’s muffled hooves

With hooded lamp.

Bury this night deep,

Deep in thy bosom,

So deep that should any man ask

You cannot give answer.

The deep heart shelters many a dark deed.

 

Why what, Boy?

Why do we hide them in hallowed earth?

Because there is no law for those we‘ve covered up,

No justice,

There’s just power,

And privilege,

And us.