There's a Cavalier that rideth on a white and bony hack; There's one beside his bridle with a spade upon his back; A truer pair, as Knight and Squire, were never yet seen, And their hostelrie is ever on the churchyard green.
They wander through the world, and keep chanting as they go, Their ditty theme is constant, for it tells of human woe; The passing bell is tolling, and their chorus comes between, "Oh, a bonnie trysting-place is our churchyard green!"
Ah! list to them, good people, as the strain comes floating round, The echo is a wide one, and truth is in the sound; For, though Winter bites the blade, or Summer flings a sheen, Still a bonnie trysting-place is the churchyard green!
Come, neighbours, do not quarrel over dice or drinking-cup, A meeting-spot is certain, where ye needs must make it up; And to part and dwell in bitterness is Folly's work, I ween, When a trysting-place awaits us on the churchyard green!
Proud noble, in your chariot, smile not with too much pride, When your wheels have splash'd the pauper who sweeps the kennel-side; No panel and no coats of arms will keep your ermine clean, When ye both shall find this trysting-place—the churchyard green!
Poor, broken-hearted mourner, ne'er hang your heavy brow, Our richest-fruit is often grown upon the cypress bough; And though the loved are hidden, 'tis but a grassy screen, That keeps you from the trysting-place—the churchyard green!
Grand rulers of the earth, fight not for boundless lands, Head not your myriad armies with fierce and crimson hands; For a narrow field will serve ye when your pioneer is seen, With his mattock on his shoulder, on the churchyard green!
Pale worker, sadly feeding on your tear-besoddened bread, With cold and palsied fingers, and hot and throbbing head; The only pleasant dream that your haggard eyes have seen, Comes when thinking of the trysting-place—the churchyard green.
Oh! a bonnie place it is, for we all shall jostle there, No matter whether purple robes, or lazar rags we wear: No marble wall, nor golden plate, can raise a bar between The comers to the trysting-place—the churchyard green!
Hark! there's the passing bell, and there's the chant again! The Cavalier and Squire are keeping up the strain; Oh loudly sings old Death, on his white and bony hack, And loudly sings the Sexton, with his spade upon his back.
'Tis hard to say, where they may stay and troll their theme of sorrow It may be at my door to-day—perchance at yours to-morrow; So let us live in kindness, since we all must meet, I ween, Upon that common trysting-place—the churchyard green!
