Toll, toll the bell, its iron tongue
Is weighty as my _second_,
Dig, dig the grave, to life he clung,
But now his days are reckon'd.
Old man, who'll ring a knell for thee,
Or dress thy couch of clay?
Why didst not thou thy death foresee,
And dig it for to-day?
King Death his journeyman demands,
On all he works his worst:
His dart he's flung at old and young,--
Death heedeth not my _first_.
Old man, thou'st dug some scores of graves,
Who'll turn the mould for thine?
And when this spade thy bed hath made,
Who'll lift a spade at mine?