My ancestors are turned to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away;—
And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die;
And yet my life amende not I!
Not Solomon, for all his wit,
Nor Samson, though he were so strong,
No king, nor ever person yet,
Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!