There’s a grim hearse horse,
In a jolly round trot,
To the churchyard a poor man is going, I wot.
The road it is rough,
And the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge the sad driver sings—
“Rattle his bones over the stones,
He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.”
26.
Of all the birds that e’er I did see,