I that in heill wes and gladnes,

Am trublit now with gret seiknes,

And feblit with infermitie;

Timor mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,

This fals world is but transitory,

The flesche is brukle, the Feynd is slee;

Timor mortis conturbat me.

The stait of man does change and vary,

Now sound, now seik, now blith, now sary,

Now dansand mery, now like to dee;

Timor mortis conturbat me.

No stait in Erd here standis sicker;

As with the wynd wavis the wicker,

Wavis this warldis vanitie;

Timor mortis conturbat me.

On to the dead gois all Estatis,

Princis, prelotis, and Potestatis,

Baith rich and pur of all degree;

Timor mortis conturbat me.

He sparis no lord for his piscence,

Na clerk for his intelligence;

His awfull straik may no man flee;

Timor mortis conturbat me.

Sen he hes all my brether tane,

He will nocht lat me lif alane,

On force I mun his next prey be;

Timor mortis conturbat me.

—WILLIAM DUNBAR
  Lament for the Makers

Look at the mourners;

Bloody great hypocrites!

Isn’t it grand, boys, to be bloody well dead?

Let’s not have a sniffle

Let’s have a bloody good cry!

And always remember the longer you live

The sooner you’ll bloody well die!

—an Irish lullaby