Song in the Manner of Housman

 O woe, woe, 
People are born and die, 
We also shall be dead pretty soon 
Therefore let us act as if we were 
dead already.


The bird sits on the hawthorn tree 
But he dies also, presently.
 
Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
 
Woeful is this human lot.
 
Woe! woe, etcetera .
 .
 .
 .


London is a woeful place, 
Shropshire is much pleasanter.
 
Then let us smile a little space 
Upon fond nature's morbid grace.
 
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera .
 .
 .

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