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Except that grave, you scarce see one
That was not dug by me
I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three!
"Aye, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale."
"You, Sir! are but a lad;
This month I'm in my seventieth year.
And still it makes me sad.
And Mary's sister told it me.
For three good hours and more;
Tho' I had heard it, in the main.
From Edward's self, before.
Well! it pass'd off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary;
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary lov'd her more and more:
She manag'd all the dairy.
To market she on market-days.
To church on Sundays came;
All seem'd the same: all seem'd so, Sir!
But all was not the same!
