O woe, woe,
             People are born and die,
             We also shall be dead pretty soon
             Therefore let us act as if we were
                   dead already.
 
             The bird sits on the hawthorn tree
             But he dies also, presently.
             Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
             Woeful is this human lot.
                   Woe! woe, etcetera . . . .
 
             London is a woeful place,
             Shropshire is much pleasanter.
             Then let us smile a little space
             Upon fond nature’s morbid grace.
                   Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera . . . .

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