The Funeral, V

Dark grew the Warden’s cheeks of bloom, Like wizard started from the tomb; He blest each saint he knew! And as his ruddy face grew pale, His lips shook, quivering as the gale, And pass’d from red to blue. By good St Mungo’s soul he swore, (As evermore his locks he tore, And fierce his blood did boil,) That “ere they moved the old man’s bones, “As easily they’d move the stones. “Which propp’d the lofty isle!”