At Bradwell in the marshes
There is an inn.
Few are the travellers
Have rested therein.
The folk that sit there
Have but little to say;
They sit looking out of the window
At the churchyard across the way.
Growing among the graves
Is a green weeping willow.
The graves are all green
And peaceful as a pillow.
The bar-parlour is shaded
With a green gloom,
As if the willow-branches
Were waving in the room.
Churchyard and church and inn--
They are all very old.
Even the beer they draw there
Seems to taste of the mould.