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!