Ballad—in the Quizes

The passing bell was heard to toll, John wail'd his loss with bitter cries, The parson prayed for Mry's soul, The sexton hid her from all eyes. "And art thou gone," Cried wretched John, Oh dear 'twill kill me, I am dying: Cried Neighbour Sly' While standing by, "Lord how this world is giv'n to lying!"

The throng retired, John left alone, He meditated 'mongst the tombs, And spelt out on the mould'ring stones, What friends were gone to their long homes: "You're gone before," Cried John, no more— "I shall come soon, I'm almost dying: Cried Neighbour Sly, While standing by, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"

'Here lies the bones, heav'n's will be done, 'Of farmer Slug:—reader would'st know 'Who to his mem'ry raised this stone? ''Twas his disconsolate widow.' Cried John, "Oh oh! "To her I'll go, "No doubt with grief the widow's dying:" Cried Neighbour Sly, Still standing by, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"

Their mutual grief was short and sweet: Scarcely the passing bell had ceased, When they were sped;—the funeral meat Was warmed up for the marriage feast! They vow'd, and swore, Now o'er and o'er, They ne'er would part till both were dying— Cried Neighbour Sly, Still standing by, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"

Again to hear the passing bell, John now a sort of hack'ring feels; Again his help-mate brags how well She can trip up a husband's heels: Again to the tomb Each longs to come, Again with tears, and sobs, and sighing, For Neighbour Sly, Again to cry, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"