I plant a human acorn in the ground, And therefrom straightway springs a goodly tree, Budding for me in bread and beer and beef. O Life, dost thou bring Death or Death bring thee? Which of the twain is bringer, which the brought? Since men must die that other men may live. O Death, for me thou plump’st thine hollow cheeks, Mak’st of thine antic grin a pleasant smile, And prank’st full gaily in thy winding sheet. This ditty sang he to a doleful tune To outer ears it sounded like a dirge, Or wind that wails across the fields of death. ’Ware of a visitor, he ceased his strain, But still did ply his saw industrious. With withered hand on ear, Dame Hubbard stood; “Vex not mine ears,” she grated, “with thine old And creaking saw!” “I deemed,” he said, and sighed, “Old saws might please thee, as they should the wise.” “Know,” said the Dame, “Sir Tray that with me dwelt Lies on my lonely hearthstone stark and stiff; Wagless the tail that waved to welcome me.”— Here Waldgrave interposed sepulchral tones, “Oft have I noted, when the jest went round, Sad ’twas to see the wag forget his tale— Sadder to see the tail forget its wag.” “Wherefore,” resumed she, “take of fitting stuff, And make therewith a narrow house for him.” Quoth he, “From yonder deal I’ll plane the bark, So ’twill of Tray be emblematical; For thou, ’tis plain, must lose a deal of bark, Since he nor bark nor bite shall practice more.” “And take thou, too,” she said, “a coffin-plate, And be his birth and years inscribed thereon With letters twain ‘S. T.’ to mark Sir Tray, So shall the tomb be known in after time.” “This, too,” quoth Waldgrave, “shall be deftly done; Oft hath the plate been freighted with his bones, But now his bones must lie beneath the plate.” “Jest’st thou?” Dame Hubbard said, and clutched her crutch, For ill she brooked light parlance of the dead; But when she saw Sir Waldgrave, how his face Was all drawn downward, till the curving mouth Seemed a horseshoe, while o’er the furrowed cheek A wandering tear stole on, like rivulet In dry ravine down mother Ida’s side, She changed her purpose, smote not, lowered the staff;— So parted, faring homeward with her grief.