London Lyrics — Enigma

Toll, toll the bell, its iron tongue Is weighty as my _second_, Dig, dig the grave, to life he clung, But now his days are reckon'd. Old man, who'll ring a knell for thee, Or dress thy couch of clay?

Why didst not thou thy death foresee, And dig it for to-day?

King Death his journeyman demands, On all he works his worst: His dart he's flung at old and young,-- Death heedeth not my _first_.

Old man, thou'st dug some scores of graves, Who'll turn the mould for thine?

And when this spade thy bed hath made, Who'll lift a spade at mine?