Of green wreaths and floral tributes,
Kindly tributes of affection.
And the ancient trodden graveyard,
Of the city’s early ages,
Lingers on with sunken tomb-stones,
Lingers on with gray inscriptions,
Lingers yet with moss and ivy,
Winding close their clinging tendrils,
Lingers now a small enclosure,
In the suburbs of Lancaster.