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.

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 turn’d to clay
And dear friends hear my knell,
O let them give a sigh and say—
I hear the up-stairs bell.