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(Such tales their chear, at Wake or Gossiping,
When is draws neat to witching time of night.)

Oft, in the lune church-yard at nigh I've seen
By glimpse of moon-shine, chequering thro' the trees,
The school-boy with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
Ad lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown;)
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears!
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid Apparition, tall and ghostly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new open'd grave; and (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

The new made Widow too, I've sometimes 'spy'd,
Sad sight! slow moving o'r the prostrate dead;
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye.
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling Memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up
The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.

Invidious Grave—how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom Love has knit, and Sympathy made one?
A tie more stubborn far than Nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;