Here ’neath our Trysting Oak, I weep.
All round and round the grass rolls deep,
Sweet Saints! How sound the cattle sleep!
Part II
They took her down our twisted stair,
Great their haste and scant their care,
And laid her by the stairfoot there.
Quick and short was their task in truth,
Yet might they, so meseems, in sooth
To threescore years have shown some ruth!