The Parish Church of St John-at-Hampstead

Written on discovering that my wife was descended from his sister, Vera

Nathaniel Booth, of Dunham Massie, Cheshire,
Fourth Baron De La Mere, of that same shire,
Is buried here; and his two sons and daughter
He buried first, himself then did expire.

Costly and pompous, crest encrusted coffer
The years shall weather, and the winds abrade,
Seeds grown to saplings in its fissures fixed
Have forced apart the stones his fame displayed.

They say the Boa killeth by constriction,
But here the opposite effect is showed;
By annual growth and incremental pressure
The serpent root burst out in Alien’s mode.

But now, in summer twilight, yew-tree shaded,
Your tomb, methinks, is like a cottage made,
And from its low thatched roof one sees protruding
The semblance of a chimney pot displayed.

Sight-seers, idlers, passers-by, old ladies
Pause; watch my mattock high extended
I hold the blow, returns a civil greeting
I find my war on weeds highly commended.

How can I give the real reason
That drives my pious labour to succeed
Beyond the normal hour of work’s cessation,
Over the normal threshold of fatigue?

Know then that this Nathaniel Booth was brother
To Vera, who took to husband Mister Tyndale,
They in their love a spark of life did kindle
That burned from generation one t’another.

Until, two hundred years, and five more, later
Was born the perfect wife, I’d have no other,
She married me, did this Elizabeth,
On burned the flame, to five new sparks she’s mother.

And so, Nathaniel Booth, you’re not forgotten,
Your father’s line lives on in many another,
And on your tomb, memorial of your essence,
We’ll pay the tribute that we owe an an’stress’ brother.