Once 'twas my song at a ball,
My dance at a wedding,
But now the bones of me call
For bed and bedding,
Sheet and sheeting that's sound,
And I will go off in
Pomp to the house in the ground,
The clay in a coffin.

'Tis seed-time at Candlemas,
Then, there let it!
There are, when I come to pass,
Fine men to set it,
Men and them hale and strong —
Of breed and breeding.
Their hands won't idle long,
Sowing and seeding!

It's a brave turf fire the night
In the house I've grown old in —
A narrow home is in sight,
But room to grow cold in!
Is it Candlemas now with its rain?
Or Lammas Day with the mowing?
Neither will know me again,
And it time to be going.