Old John Ormsby, touched with mould,
Under a blanket of soft new green,
Free of the wind and the biting cold -
Old John Ormsby hands a-fold
Sleeps in The Church-Yard, all serene.

Many a sight his eyes have seen,
Many a tale his lips have told,
Vanished as though they had never been,
And many a blanket of fresh new green
Has covered John Ormsby from the cold.

The Grimy Church and the faithful fold,
Cling to the spot lying sharp between
Temples, where things are bought and sold,
Where nothing is given except for gold,
And still John Ormsby’s shroud is green.

Say that his place is small and mean
A distant cry from the fragrant world.
Pray that he's dreaming all serene
Of the lovely sights his eyes have seen,
And the lusty tales his lips have told.