Which time in his spite and unruth 

 Has taken. 

 We are dim and palsied and shaken, 

 Ah! me—forsaken. 

 Where are the fair white maids 

 With flower faces and carriage 

 Straight as new-smithied blades, 

 Ripe, ready for marriage? 

 Now all are withered and grey, 

 Their beauty has passed away, 

 Ah! madness— 

 They are bent like hoops with sadness 

 And the world's badness. 

 Our voices are hoarse and drear, 

 As we sit and mumble together, 

 We have no good tidings to hear 

 We had sooner have never 

 (So we grumble together) been born, 

 That are so sick and forlorn; 

 Just shadows— 

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