Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a Sexton old, on his earth worn spade,
His work was done, and he paused to wait,
The fun'ral train through the open gait;
A relic of bygone days was he,
And his locks were white as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin,
"I gather them in, I gather them in,
Gather, gather, gather, I gather them in."

"I gather them in! For man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy;
I've builded the houses that lie around,
In ev'ry nook of this burial ground,
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude, one by one,
But come they strangers, or come they kin,
I gather them in, I gather them in,
Gather, gather, gather, I gather them in."

Many are with me, but still I'm alone,
I'm king of the dead - and I make my throne,
On a monument slab of marble cold,
Any my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold;
Come they from cottage or come they from great hall,
Mankind are my subjects - all, all, all!
Let them loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,
I gather them in, I gather them in,
Gather, gather, gather, I gather them in.

"I gather them in - and their final rest
Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!
And the Sexton ceased - for the funeral train
Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain;
And I said to my heart of heart - when time is told,
A mightier voice than that Sexton's old,
Will sound o'ver the last tramp's dreadful din,
I gather them in, I gather them in,
Gather, gather, gather, I gather them in."