Page:Poems Cook.djvu/166

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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