  Hark! now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud! Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay's now competent: A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And—the foul fiend more to check— A crucifix let bless your neck; 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan and come away. |
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