XIV The rest is naught . . . We buried her o’ Sunday. Neighbours carried her; And Swetman—he who’d married her—now miserablest of men, Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but composed anon; And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom then. XV Our old bass player, as I recall—his white hair blown—but why recall!— His viol upstrapped, bent figure—doomed to follow her full soon— Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us . . . We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her—set to Saint Stephen’s tune. THE DEAD QUIRE I BESIDE the Mead of Memories, Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill, The sad man sighed his phantasies: He seems to sigh them still. II “’Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest, But the Mellstock quire of former years Had entered into rest. III “Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree, And Reuben and Michael a pace behind, And Bowman with his family By the wall that the ivies bind. IV “The singers had followed one by one, Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass; And the worm that wasteth had begun To mine their mouldering place. V “For two-score years, ere Christ-day light, Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these; But now there echoed on the night No Christmas harmonies. VI “Three meadows off, at a dormered inn, The youth had gathered in high carouse, And, ranged on settles, some therein Had drunk them to a drowse. VII “Loud, lively, reckless, some had grown, Each dandling on his jigging knee Eliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan— Livers in levity. VIII “The taper flames and hearthfire shine Grew smoke-hazed to a lurid light, And songs on subjects not divine Were warbled forth that night. IX “Yet many were sons and grandsons here Of those who, on such eves gone by, At that still hour had throated clear Their anthems to the sky. X “The clock belled midnight; and ere long One shouted, ‘Now ’tis Christmas morn; Here’s to our women old and young, And to John Barleycorn!’ XI “They drink the toast and shout again: The pewter-ware rings back the boom, And for a breath-while follows then A silence in the room. XII