A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.
Reading edition
HEN I reflect with serious sense, While years and years run on, How soon I may be summon’d hence— There’s cook a-calling John. Our lives are built so frail and poor, On sand and not on rocks, We’re hourly standing at Death’s door— There’s some one double-knocks. All human days have settled terms, Our fates we cannot force; This flesh of mine will feed the worms— They’re come to lunch of course. And when my body’s turn’d to clay And dear friends hear my knell, O let them give a sigh and say— I hear the up-stairs bell.
