A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.

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!