Hark! Now everything is still
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill
Call upon our dame aloud
And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay 's now competent:
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd

Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping
Their life a general mist of error
Their death a hideous storm of terror
Strew your hair with powders sweet
Don clean linen, bathe your feet

And—the foul fiend more to check—
A crucifix let bless your neck:
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan and come away