Autumn.

The Autumn is old, The sere leaves are flying;— He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;— Old Age, begin sighing! The vintage is ripe, The harvest is heaping;— But some that have sow'd Have no riches for reaping;— Poor wretch, fall a-weeping! The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning;— Cold winter gives warning. The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking!