We rest, and our hearts grow weary of all.
For life, it is toil,
And happiness moil.
Allanamoulin, Allanamoulin.
The grave is the only repose for our being;
Thou ’rt welcome, Oh, death! When thou wilt, we are thine.
There’s nought on this earth that’s worth thinking or seeing,
And life’s fitful fever has no anodyne.
To work is to rest;
To die is the best.