Dicky.

Mother      Oh, what a heavy sigh!          Dicky, are you ailing?             Dicky      Even by this fireside, mother,          My heart is failing.      To-night across the down,          Whistling and jolly,      I sauntered out from town          With my stick of holly.      Bounteous and cool from sea          The wind was blowing,      Cloud shadows under the moon          Coming and going.      I sang old roaring songs,          Ran and leaped quick,      And turned home by St. Swithin's          Twirling my stick.      And there as I was passing          The churchyard gate      An old man stopped me, "Dicky,          You're walking late."      I did not know the man,          I grew afeared      At his lean lolling jaw,          His spreading beard.      His garments old and musty,          Of antique cut,      His body very lean and bony,          His eyes tight shut.      Oh, even to tell it now          My courage ebbs...      His face was clay, mother,          His beard, cobwebs.      In that long horrid pause          "Good-night," he said,      Entered and clicked the gate,          "Each to his bed."             Mother      Do not sigh or fear, Dicky,          How is it right      To grudge the dead their ghostly dark          And wan moonlight?      We have the glorious sun,          Lamp and fireside.      Grudge not the dead their moonshine          When abroad they ride.