Early in life, when we can laugh aloud,
There’s something pleasant in a social crowd,
Who laugh with us - but will such joy remain
When we lie struggling on the bed of pain?
When our physician tells us with a sigh,
No more on hope and science to rely,
Life’s staff is useless then; with labouring breath
We pray for Hope divine - the staff of Death; -
This is a scene which few companions grace,
And where the heart’s first favourites yield their place.