A Few Lines On Completing Forty-Seven.

A poem by Thomas Hood

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!