THE SEXTON.
This is the lay of the sexton grey;
King of the churchyard he—
While the mournful knell of the tolling hell,
Chimes in with his burden of glee.
King of the churchyard he—
While the mournful knell of the tolling hell,
Chimes in with his burden of glee.
He dons a doublet of sober brown,
And a hat of slouching felt;
The mattock is over his shoulder thrown,
The heavy keys clank at his belt.
And a hat of slouching felt;
The mattock is over his shoulder thrown,
The heavy keys clank at his belt.
The dark, damp vault now echoes his tread,
While his song rings merrily out;
With a cobweb canopy over his head,
And coffins falling about.
While his song rings merrily out;
With a cobweb canopy over his head,
And coffins falling about.
His foot may crush the full-fed worms,
His hand may grasp a shroud;
His gaze may rest on skeleton forms,
Yet his tones are light and loud.
His hand may grasp a shroud;
His gaze may rest on skeleton forms,
Yet his tones are light and loud.
He digs the grave, and his chant will break,
As he gains a fathom deep—
"Whoever lies in the bed I make,
I warrant will soundly sleep."
As he gains a fathom deep—
"Whoever lies in the bed I make,
I warrant will soundly sleep."
He piles the sod, he raises the stone,
He clips the cypress-tree;
But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone;
No fellowship holds he.
He clips the cypress-tree;
But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone;
No fellowship holds he.
For the sexton grey is a searing loon;
His name is link'd with death:
The children at play, should he cross their way,
Will pause, with fluttering breath.
His name is link'd with death:
The children at play, should he cross their way,
Will pause, with fluttering breath.
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