Hark! Voices and yelling, hardly to be heard, though

Hark! Voices and yelling, hardly to be heard, though;

Muffled, intermingled sounds I hear from far away,

I recognise those who disturb at night

The sleep of the dead, the stars' silent path.

The drunken sexton, weaving his way from the tavern,

Sits down in front of the house in the moonlight,

Croaks a psalm; but no sooner has she heard him yell

Than his wife dashes out to pull him by the hair.

Tells him to go in and scolds him grimly,

Undauntedly the fellow yells about;

In practised duet their voices mingle,

Her cat-meows, his howling at the moon.

It can't be far, as I can hear it,

The old prebendary's den

Let's see if the riff-raff can be disturbed,

Cry out as loud as you can, buried soul!

The door slams shut - the noise abates,

No use - and if I cried myself to death!

Fearsomely thy plug their large ears

To any sound of life that comes from underneath.