A Few Lines On Completing Forty-Seven.

When I reflect with serious sense, While years and years run on, How soon I may be summoned 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 turned to clay, And dear friends hear my knell, Oh let them give a sigh and say— I hear the upstairs bell!