Not a mourner had donned his sable coat,
By the grave where our pauper we buried.
We buried him quickly at shut of night,
The sods with our keen shovels turning;
By the closing day's last glimmering light,
And the lantern palely burning.
No oaken coffin enclosed his breast,
In a sheet for a shroud we wound him:
And he lay as a pauper should, taking his rest,
With his four deal planks nailed around him.