Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/59

 . . . You’re all alone. Tho’ we trudge on beside (All of us but poor Pincher), one by one, And Granny often stumbles: yet you ride Alone.

. . . You need no gaiters, tho’ the roads be mire; Your old blue cloak’s at home, despite the rain; We needn’t be afraid you’ll ever tire Again.

. . . ’Tis market-day, we're all for Shere, and yet There’s not one word among so many souls. But, straight ahead, a bell one can’t forget Tolls, tolls. . ..

Stop, yon’s the village! Lay the holly-greens Upon the lid. . . lift him. . . with bated breath Bear him along, and reverence! Oh, this means Death!