A woodman was toiling, all covered with dust,
But reach home with his faggot ere night he must,
Panting and weary he walks quite slow,
How to get home he does not know.
At last quite exhausted with toil and trouble,
With the weight of the burden and his years, bent double.
He puts down his faggot, and thinks of his pains,
What is his work, and what are his gains,
How since he came into this weary world,
By the wheels of blind fortune around he's been twirled.
Was he not poor, a wood cutter, at best,
Oft without bread, always without rest.
He thinks of his wife, his children, his taxes,
At last quite warm with the subject he waxes.
He calls on death; who comes without delay,
The woodman, in terror, knows not what to say.
Death asks what to do the man wishes he should.
"Oh, help me," he said, "with this faggot of wood.
My poor bones ache, and my limbs they crack.
So help me to put it upon my back."
[Illustration]