Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.

A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws and silver eye; And moveless fish in the water gleam, By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country.

But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare-rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?