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for the times when the sweet Church chimes Call'd rich and poor to pray, As they open'd their eyes by the bright sunrise, And when evening died away: The squire came out of his rich old hall, And the peasants two and by three; The woodman let his hatchet fall, And the shepherd left his tree.

Through the Churchyard dew, by the Churchyard yew, They went, both old and young, And with one consent in prayer they bent, And with one consent they sung. They knelt on the floor till the prayers were o'er; To the priest they gave good heed: Who would not praise those good old days, When the Church was a Church indeed?

Christmas was merry Christmas then, And Easter-tide the same: And they welcomed well with merry bell Each Saint's day as it came. They thought with love on the Saints above In the pious days of old: We toil and we slave till we drop in the grave, And all for the lust of gold.

But little we'll care what wicked men May say or think, of ill, They kept the Saints' days holy then, We'll keep them holy still.