COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

‘Awake, good neighbours all, That wake not for the day. The churchyard yews won’t spread the news— No tales tell they. Awake, good neighbours, scramble out of your sepulchres, Cold lying is clay:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘You loved a merry life— For one more jaunt uprouse. The moonlit stones above your bones Show where you house: Benjamin Harris, John French late of this parish, Mary his spouse:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘Awake, for time is short, Your hour will soon be told. Link bony hands, and dance in bands, Nor dint the mould. You’ll caper limberly with no flesh to cumber ye— Better than of old:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘Let friends and neighbours meet With curtsey, beck, and bow. When back in bed, if a maidenhead Or a marriage vow Doesn’t tally exactly with who’s under which blanket, ’Twon’t matter now:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘Faint-hearted you are grown, Neighbours, by lying dead. This cock, your bane, is a weather-vane With gilt overspread; A trumpery figure, put up by the new vicar— Nothing to dread:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’