Wirastrua, wirastrua, woe to me that you are dead!
The corpse has spoken from out his bed,
'Yesternight my burning brain
Throbbed and beat on the strings of pain:
Now I rest, all my dreaming's done,
In the world behind the sun.
Yesterday I toiled full sore,
To-day I ride in a coach and four.
Yesternight in the streets I lay,
To-night with kings, and as good as they.'
Wirastrua! wirastrua! would I were lying as cold as you.