The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face,
And mount the steps and take his place,
The door be shut, the order said,
How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,
The dead coach climbs the distant hill.
Now, God, the Father of us all,
Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!


DEID FOLK'S FERRY: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

'Tis They, of a veritie--
They are calling thin an' shrill;
We maun rise an' put to sea,
We maun gi'e the deid their will,
We maun ferry them owre the faem,
For they draw us as they list;
We maun bear the deid folk hame
Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

"But how can I gang the nicht,
When I'm new come hame frae sea?
When my heart is sair for the sicht
O' my lass that langs for me?"
"O your lassie lies asleep,
An' sae do your bairnes twa;