THE TRYSTING-PLACE.
They wander through the world, and keep chanting as they go,
Their ditty theme is constant, for it tells of human woe;
The passing bell is tolling, and their chorus comes between,
"Oh, a bonnie trysting-place is our churchyard green!"
Their ditty theme is constant, for it tells of human woe;
The passing bell is tolling, and their chorus comes between,
"Oh, a bonnie trysting-place is our churchyard green!"
Ah! list to them, good people, as the strain comes floating round,
The echo is a wide one, and truth is in the sound;
For, though Winter bites the blade, or Summer flings a sheen,
Still a bonnie trysting-place is the churchyard green!
The echo is a wide one, and truth is in the sound;
For, though Winter bites the blade, or Summer flings a sheen,
Still a bonnie trysting-place is the churchyard green!
Come, neighbours, do not quarrel over dice or drinking-cup,
A meeting-spot is certain, where ye needs must make it up;
And to part and dwell in bitterness is Folly's work, I ween,
When a trysting-place awaits us on the churchyard green!
A meeting-spot is certain, where ye needs must make it up;
And to part and dwell in bitterness is Folly's work, I ween,
When a trysting-place awaits us on the churchyard green!
Proud noble, in your chariot, smile not with too much pride,
When your wheels have splash'd the pauper who sweeps the kennel-side;
No panel and no coats of arms will keep your ermine clean,
When ye both shall find this trysting-place—the churchyard green!
When your wheels have splash'd the pauper who sweeps the kennel-side;
No panel and no coats of arms will keep your ermine clean,
When ye both shall find this trysting-place—the churchyard green!
Poor, broken-hearted mourner, ne'er hang your heavy brow,
Our richest-fruit is often grown upon the cypress bough;
And though the loved are hidden, 'tis but a grassy screen,
That keeps you from the trysting-place—the churchyard green!
Our richest-fruit is often grown upon the cypress bough;
And though the loved are hidden, 'tis but a grassy screen,
That keeps you from the trysting-place—the churchyard green!
Grand rulers of the earth, fight not for boundless lands,
Head not your myriad armies with fierce and crimson hands;
For a narrow field will serve ye when your pioneer is seen,
With his mattock on his shoulder, on the churchyard green!
Head not your myriad armies with fierce and crimson hands;
For a narrow field will serve ye when your pioneer is seen,
With his mattock on his shoulder, on the churchyard green!
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