Dig the grave and dig it deep—
Straight with the mattock dig each side,
Dig it low, and dig it steep—
Dig it long and dig it wide!
As he sang, the old man plunged the spade lustily into the earth, and throwing aside the large lumps of clay, he continued with great glee—
Here while nations rise and fall,
Here while ages glide,
Here wrapt within its earthy pall,
Must the crumbling corse abide!
Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home—the grave!
He wound this up with an unnatural noise, half shriek, and half yell, and the hollow and dread dungeon arches gave back the strain.
“He, he, he!—I know a merrier catch than that! List ye, my noble captain.”
He then made a motion with his hand, as if in the act of drinking, and then a shout of wild laughter sounded through the cell.
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!—Drink to the full,
Drink to the sound of the clanking bone;
Fill high with wine the fleshless skull,
And swell the toast without a moan—
Hurra! for Death with his bony hands,
Hurra! for Death with his skeleton form,
He holds the thunderbolt.—On high he stands,
He mows them down in calm or storm—
He swept his spade around with maniac glee, and then in a voice louder and shriller, while his shrunken breast heaved with the wildness of his emotion, he sang,
Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to Death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home—the grave.