Page:Poems Cook.djvu/166

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THE SEXTON.
This is the lay of the sexton grey;
King of the churchyard he—
While the mournful knell of the tolling hell,
Chimes in with his burden of glee.

He dons a doublet of sober brown,
And a hat of slouching felt;
The mattock is over his shoulder thrown,
The heavy keys clank at his belt.

The dark, damp vault now echoes his tread,
While his song rings merrily out;
With a cobweb canopy over his head,
And coffins falling about.

His foot may crush the full-fed worms,
His hand may grasp a shroud;
His gaze may rest on skeleton forms,
Yet his tones are light and loud.

He digs the grave, and his chant will break,
As he gains a fathom deep—
"Whoever lies in the bed I make,
I warrant will soundly sleep."

He piles the sod, he raises the stone,
He clips the cypress-tree;
But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone;
No fellowship holds he.

For the sexton grey is a searing loon;
His name is link'd with death:
The children at play, should he cross their way,
Will pause, with fluttering breath.

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