Chorus—with a Groan

May fate bestow what’s good for you, Horrors jet black, and devils dark blue.

Did you but know how sweet is grief, The flowing tears that yield relief; Sweet sorrow’s sigh, heart-heaving moan, Your life wou’d be one grunt and groan.

For life’s like bubbles made by rain, No sooner come, but gone again; So we must go, as ’tis our doom, To make for other bubbles room.

Then ne’er rejoice, or e’er look glad, Keep cloudy front, and visage sad; For life’s a flake of smoke at best, And not as poet’s say, “a jest.”

Away with idle hopes and fears, Cut short your days, and nights, and years; When desp’rate grown, and hating life Go off by water, rope, or knife.

Coffins to be shewn.

Then comes this tight-screw’d patent case, The undertaker’s last embrace;

Fast lock’d in which, four feet in ground, We’re safe until the trumpet’s sound. But, hark! the sexton tolls the bell! So coffin comrades fare ye well.