AUTUMN.

The Autumn is old,

The sere leaves are flying;—

He hath gather'd up gold,

And now he is dying;—

Old Age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe,

The harvest is heaping;—

But some that have sow'd

Have no riches for reaping;—

Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

The year's in the wane,

There is nothing adorning,

The night has no eve,

And the day has no morning;—

Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill,

The red sun is sinking,

And I am grown old,

And life is fast shrinking;

Here's enow for sad thinking!