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-2/
