Here to the right and there to the left
Flew fields of corn and clover,
And the bridges flashed by to the dazzled eye,
As rattling they thundered over.
"What ails my love? the moon shines bright:
Bravely the dead men ride through the night.
Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"
"Ah! no;— let them sleep in their dusty bed I"
On the breeze cool and soft what tune floats aloft,
While the crows wheel overhead?—
Ding dong! ding dong! 'tis the sound, 'tis the song,—
"Room, room for the passing dead!"
Slowly the funeral-train drew near.
Bearing the coffin, bearing the bier;
And the chime of their chaunt was hissing and harsh.
Like the note of the bull-frog within the marsh.