There's a grim [one-]horse hearse in a jolly round trot,

To the church yard a pauper is going, I wot,*

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs,

And, hark! to the dirge the sad driver sings.

Rattle his bones, his bones, his bones,

Over the stones, the stones, the stones,

He's only a pauper, who nobody owns,

Nobody owns, nobody owns.

What a jolting and squeaking and splashing and din,

The whip how it cracks, the wheels how they spin;

How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled,

The pauper at length makes a noise in the world.

Rattle his bones, his bones, his bones,

Over the stones, the stones, the stones,

He's only a pauper, who nobody owns,

Nobody owns, nobody owns.

Oh! where are the mourners? alas, there are none,

He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone;

Not a tear in the eye of child, woman or man,

To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can.

Rattle his bones, his bones, his bones,

Over the stones, the stones, the stones,

He's only a pauper, who nobody owns,

Nobody owns, nobody owns.

But a truce to the strain, for my soul it is sad,

To think that a heart in humanity clad

Should make like the beast such a desolate end,

And depart from this life without leaving a friend.

Bear softly his bones, his bones, his bones,

Over the stones, the stones, the stones,

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.