Waste Away

The night has now set sail ago;

And the waters bend and creep,

Along the path, that stares so low,

That darkness in it sleeps.

The dawn is here! The dawn is here!

The cock each day, he screams,

Be it yesterday or tomorrows’ week

He shall yelp through his beak.

The roosting chickens are fit and well,

Will tomorrow they shall see?

Thoughts of death is quick and near,

And yet they sound asleep.

The farmer ploughs his farm of wheat,

Debts is high, daughter’s to think;

And so each morn’ him greets,

Till and plough, till and plough, to the depths he sinks.