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 . . .
