The merry children are playing
In the little village street;
The old men sit by the doorway:
Their evening rest is sweet.
And careful mothers are busy,
They hurry out and in;
Or pause by the door for a moment
To smile at their children's din.
And farther away in the distance,
From the playground comes a shout,
As quick-eyed youths at their pastimes
Run, strong of limb, about.
The old men sit by the doorway;
The children play in the street;
The dead are up in the churchyard,
Their rest is long and sweet.