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Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark On the bosom of Father Thames, And before her bows the wavelets dark Break into a thousand gems.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot; To the churchyear a pauper is going I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings-- Rattle his bones over the stones, He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot; To the churchyear a pauper is going I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings-- Rattle his bones over the stones, He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.