'Don't sound,' old Job, the ringer, said,
'No muffled peal for I,
But pull your lustiest, lads, instead,
When I do come to die,'

'Till chaps at plough ten mile away,
So loud the music swells,
Do hear and stop their teams and say,
'There goes Long Barton bells.'

For look, when they do show their powers
And swing and shake the spire,
There hain't a peal can match wi' ours,
'No, not in all the shire.'

'I've rung they bells year in, year out,
Since I was but a boy,
And loved 'em best when they did shout
Like marning stars for joy.'

'So toll, when I to churchyard go,
No knell wi' mournful sound,
But ring 'em high an' ring 'em low
An' ring 'em round an' round.'

'An' send out all your j'yfullest notes
When I do come to die;
But never let they tuneful throats
Be sad along of I!'