1 Wake up my muse, condole the loss
Of those that mourn this day—
Let tears distil on every face,
And every mourner pray.

2 The tyrant, Death, came rushing in,
Last night his power did shew,
Out of this world this child did take,
Death laid its visage low.

3 No more the pleasant child is seen
To please its parent's eye,
The tender plant, so fresh and green,
Is in eternity.

4 The golden bowl by Death is broke,
The pitcher's burst in twain,
The cistern-wheel has felt the stroke,
The pleasant child is slain.

5 The winding-sheet doth bind its limbs,
The coffin holds it fast,
To-day it's seen by all its friends,
But this must be the last.

6 Until the Lord doth come, to judge,
The nations great and small,
And you and I before him stand,
And at his presence fall.