The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;-
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;-
Old Age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;-
But some that have sow'd
Have no riches for reaping;-
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!
The year's in the wane,
There is nothing adorning,
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;-
Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here's enow for sad thinking!