 | Poems and Lancashire Songs |  |
103
POOR TRAVELLERS ALL.
I
Poor travellers all,Both great and small,
How thoughtlessly we play
In a country
Of mortality,
Where never a man can stay.
II
Our birth is butA starting foot
Upon the fatal road,
104
O'er life, to snatch
The jewel back to God.
III
Time's sickle reaps,In restless sweeps,
The harvest of decay;
On every ground
His sheaves are bound,
And garnered in the clay.
IV
Though hints divine,In symbols fine,
With warnings strew the way,—
Beseeching us,
And teaching us,
The danger of delay,—
105
V
We dally still,With fitful will,
Among delusive joys;
Heeding them not,
Except for sport,—
As children play with toys.
VI
We romp and runMad in the sun;
We murmur at the cloud;
And where's the breast
That's quite at rest
Until it's in a shroud?
VII
Thus glides awayLife's little day,
In giddiness and glooms;
106
Can feel it's gone,
Until his bed-time comes.
VIII
Poor travellers all,Both great and small,
How thoughtlessly we play,
In a country
Of mortality,
Where never a man can stay.
| Poems and Lancashire Songs | |