| |
| THE CRAB, the bullace, and the sloe, | |
| They burgeon in the Spring; | |
| And, when the west wind melts the snow, | |
| The redstarts build and sing. | |
| But Death’s at work in rind and root, | 5 |
| And loves the green buds best; | |
| And when the pairing music’s mute, | |
| He spares the empty nest. | |
| Death! Death! | |
| Death is master of lord and clown. | 10 |
| Close the coffin, and hammer it down. | |
| |
| When nuts are brown and sere without, | |
| And white and plump within, | |
| And juicy gourds are pass’d about, | |
| And trickle down the chin; | 15 |
| When comes the reaper with his scythe, | |
| And reaps and nothing leaves, | |
| Oh, then it is that Death is blithe, | |
| And sups among the sheaves. | |
| Death! Death! | 20 |
| Lower the coffin and slip the cord: | |
| Death master of clown and lord. | |
| |
| When logs about the house are stack’d, | |
| And next year’s hose is knit, | |
| And tales are told and jokes are crack’d, | 25 |
| And faggots blaze and spit; | |
| Death sits down in the ingle-nook, | |
| Sits down and doth not speak: | |
| But he puts his arm round the maid that ’s warm, | |
| And she tingles in the cheek. | 30 |
| Death! Death! | |
| Death is master of lord and clown; | |
| Shovel the clay in, tread it down. | |
| |
