 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
160
From the Chimney Corner
When we are dead
And newly burièd,
The worm, 'tis said
Out of a pity doth creep
Unto the ear of our sleep,
And with her little voice
Singeth a note or so,
As near 's she can like the lark,
To help us in the dark:
Saying, “Rejoice, rejoice,
For all shall yet be well!”
And newly burièd,
The worm, 'tis said
Out of a pity doth creep
Unto the ear of our sleep,
And with her little voice
Singeth a note or so,
As near 's she can like the lark,
To help us in the dark:
Saying, “Rejoice, rejoice,
For all shall yet be well!”
From Death who is terrible
(Yet hath no sting),
And from the grave
Which bindeth us
(Yet hath no victory),
Physicians might not save
Old parson. Thus,
He lay
Down in the churchyard clay;
And I have heard folk say
That on the second day
The kind worm passeth that way
And sidleth up to him,
And doth her best to sing,
Saying, “Be unafraid,
'Tis mortal lonesome here,
Meanly thy bed is made,
Thou lack'st both light and cheer
And shalt, for many a year:
Yet lift up th' heart—endure,
For the reward is sure!”—
(Yet hath no sting),
And from the grave
Which bindeth us
(Yet hath no victory),
Physicians might not save
Old parson. Thus,
He lay
Down in the churchyard clay;
161
That on the second day
The kind worm passeth that way
And sidleth up to him,
And doth her best to sing,
Saying, “Be unafraid,
'Tis mortal lonesome here,
Meanly thy bed is made,
Thou lack'st both light and cheer
And shalt, for many a year:
Yet lift up th' heart—endure,
For the reward is sure!”—
‘Um,” sniffs old parson, “two of a trade!”
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |