THE CRAB, the bullace, and the sloe, <br /> They burgeon in the Spring; <br />And, when the west wind melts the snow, <br /> The redstarts build and sing. <br />But Death’s at work in rind and root, <br /> And loves the green buds best; <br />And when the pairing music’s mute, <br /> He spares the empty nest. <br /> Death! Death! <br /> Death is master of lord and clown. <br /> Close the coffin, and hammer it down. <br /> <br />When nuts are brown and sere without, <br /> And white and plump within, <br />And juicy gourds are pass’d about, <br /> And trickle down the chin; <br />When comes the reaper with his scythe, <br /> And reaps and nothing leaves, <br />Oh, then it is that Death is blithe, <br /> And sups among the sheaves. <br /> Death! Death! <br /> Lower the coffin and slip the cord: <br /> Death master of clown and lord. <br /> <br />When logs about the house are stack’d, <br /> And next year’s hose is knit, <br />And tales are told and jokes are crack’d, <br /> And faggots blaze and spit; <br />Death sits down in the ingle-nook, <br /> Sits down and doth not speak: <br />But he puts his arm round the maid that ’s warm, <br /> And she tingles in the cheek. <br /> Death! Death! <br /> Death is master of lord and clown; <br /> Shovel the clay in, tread it down.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/songs-from-prince-lucifer-i-grave-digger-s-song/
