I rode my horse to the hostel gate,
And the landlord fed it with corn and hay:
His eyes were blear, he limped in his gait,
His lip hung down, his hair was grey.

I entered in the wayside inn;
And the landlady met me without a smile;
Her dreary dress was old and thin,
Her face was full of piteous guile.

There they had been for threescore years:
There was none to tell them they were great:
Not one to tell of our hopes and fears;
And not far off was the churchyard gate.