Matthew Brown Composer


Death Song

Death Song


Hark, now everything is still;

The screech-owl and the whistler shrill

Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent;

Your length in clay’s now competent:

A long war disturbed your mind;

Here your perfect peace is signed.

Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping?

Sin their conception, their birth weeping,

Their life a general mist of error,

Their death a hideous storm of terror.

Strew your hair with powders sweet,

Don clean linen, bathe your feet,

And (the foul fiend more to check)

A crucific let bless your neck:

‘Tis now full tide ‘tween night and day;

End your groan, and come away.


John Webster