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Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

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Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

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For them, no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

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