Under bare Ben Bulben's head In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.

Irish poets, earn your trade, Sing whatever is well made, Scorn the sort now growing up All out of shape from toe to top, Their unremembering hearts and heads …

No marble, no conventional phrase; On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

Thank God that sow's gone to the butcher.

Here lies W. C. Fields. I would rather be living in Philadelphia.

'I wonder why he shot me,'