SING, lad, while you may Under the sun;
Soon cometh end of day And night begun.
Ask not of gay or sad;
They weep who must,
Till aching hearts, lad,
Are blowing dust;
And fragrance of the May,
Or sound of laughter The wind has borne away,
Come not hereafter.
Out of the heart-break,
And the strife,
Sing—lest your dead dust ache With frustrate life.