Now the haughty lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon;Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night, That the graves, all gaping wide,Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way path, to glide.
