Ever since the days of the Friars,
Have lifted to Heaven their ancient spires.
The bells of the third are heard to toll—
For Pauper, Dives?
Pastor, Cives?
For a rich or a poor man's soul?
Winding round the sandy mound
Coaches and four, feathers and pall,
Startle the simple villagers all!
Sable mutes, death's recruits!