To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings:
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.
Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none;
He has left not a gap in the world, now he’s gone;
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.
Rattle his bones over the stones!