POQipywr Ray, \. Poon 
And brush, brush, brush, the ghostlie crew, 
Come wheeling o’er their heads, 
All rustling like the wither’d leaves, 
That wyde the wirlwind spreads, 
Halloo! halioo! away they go, 
Unheeding wet or dry ; 
And hosse and rider snort and blowe, 
And sparkling pebbies flye. 
And all that in the moonshyne lay, 
Behynde them fled afar; 
And backwarde scudded overhead 
The sky and every star. 
Tramp, tramp, across the lande they speede ; 
Splash, splash, across the sea; : 
** Hurrah! the dead can ride apace; 
Dost fear to ride with mee? 
I weene the cock prepares to crowe; 
The sand will soone be runne: 
I snuffe the earlye morning aire ; 
Downe, downe! our work is done. 
The dead, the dead can ryde apace ; 
Oure wed-bed here is fit: 
Oovre race is ridde, our journey ore, 
Oure endlesse union knit. 
And lo! an yren-grated grate 
Soon biggens to their viewe: 
He crackte his whyppe ; the clangynge boltes, 
The doores asunder flewe. 
They pass, and ’twas on graves they trode : 
«* Tis hither we are bounde :” 
And many a tombstone gostlie white 
Lay inn the moonshyne round. 
And when hee from his steede alytte, 
His armour, black as cinder, 
Did moulder, moulder-all awaye, 
As were it made of tinder. 
His head became a naked scull ; 
Nor haire nor eyne had hee, 
His body grew a skeleton, 
Whilome so blythe of blee. 
And att his drye and boney heele 
No spur was left to be; 
And inn his witherde hande you might 
The scythe and hour-glasse see, © 
Kk3 And 
