Maxioms by Thomas Noel
There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;
To the churchyear a pauper is going I wot;
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There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;
To the churchyear a pauper is going I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings--
Rattle his bones over the stones,
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.
Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark
On the bosom of Father Thames,
And before her bows the wavelets read more
Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark
On the bosom of Father Thames,
And before her bows the wavelets dark
Break into a thousand gems.
