Sing in a minor key I know.
I’ll not attempt Hood’s humorous style,
I do not crave John Gilpin’s ride.
It was my custom, when a child,
To linger at my mother’s side
When she would sing “The Old Church Yard,”
That told how soft and green its sward.
“The angels that watched ’round the tomb”
Crept, as she sang, into our room.
’Tis said the clown will never jest