John of Tours is back with peace,
But he comes home ill at ease.

‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son;
Your wife has borne you a little one.’

‘Go now, mother, go before,
Make me a bed upon the floor;

‘Very low your foot must fall,
That my wife hear not at all.’

As it neared the midnight toll,
John of Tours gave up his soul.

‘Tell me now, my mother my dear,
What's the crying that I hear?’

‘Daughter, it's the children wake
Crying with their teeth that ache.’

‘Tell me though, my mother my dear,
What's the knocking that I hear?’

‘Daughter, it's the carpenter
Mending planks upon the stair.’

‘Tell me too, my mother my dear,
What's the singing that I hear?’

‘Daughter, it's the priests in rows
Going round about our house.’

‘Tell me then, my mother my dear,
What's the dress that I should wear?’

‘Daughter, any reds or blues,
But the black is most in use.’

‘Nay, but say, my mother my dear,
Why do you fall weeping here?’

‘Oh! the truth must be said,—
It's that John of Tours is dead.’

‘Mother, let the sexton know
That the grave must be for two;

‘Aye, and still have room to spare,
For you must shut the baby there.’