Ding dong, dong ding dong!
Full thousands seven and hundreds five,
Each on his grave's edge, yawning wide,
His dead man's wrappings lays aside.
Then leave they their white winding-sheets,
Ding dong, dong ding dong!
Then leave they their white winding-sheets,
And walk, accomplishing their doom,
In sad procession from the tomb.
Full one thousand and hundreds five,