Wolsey's Grave. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Now Wolsey was, in olden time,
A man of high renown;
And I went forth to seek his grave,
Close by fair Leicester town.
I stood beside the ruin'd wall,
And a damsel passèd by;
And I said, 'Come, show me, maiden fair,
Where doth Lord Wolsey lie?'

'Lord Wolsey, Sir? there is no lord
Within these Abbey gates;
There's only Master Warner here,
The land who cultivates;
And Mistress Warner, and the maids,
And the pretty children dear,
And the men that in the garden dig:
Lord Wolsey is not here.'

An old man labour'd in the ground—
His locks were silver grey;
I said, 'Where is Lord Wolsey's grave?
Come, shew to me, I Pray.'
He from his labour ceas'd awhile,
And rested on his shade;
And when he told me he was deaf,
I repeated what I'd said.

'Lord Wolsey? why, I never heard
Of such a man before;
And I am old enough to know—
I'm upwards of fourscore.
There's Well'sley, —he is still alive,—
Who fought through France and Spain;
My Jack went with him to the wars,
But he ne'er returned again.

A lady in that garden stray'd,
And her I next address'd:
'Pray, madam, can you point to me
The place of Wolsey's rest?'
And she said, neither heap nor sod,
Nor stone, nor pillar grey,
Was left to indicate the spot
Where the once Proud Wolsey lay!