 | The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood |  |
A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN
When 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.
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.
On sand and not on rocks,
We're hourly standing at Death's door—
There's some one double-knocks.
297
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.
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,
Oh, let them give a sigh and say—
I hear the upstairs bell.
And dear friends hear my knell,
Oh, let them give a sigh and say—
I hear the upstairs bell.
| The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood | |