Classic Poem

I'm a-weary with care, I'm a-weary with care,
Surrounded with woes that no mortal can bear,
Whil'st I gaze on the night of my ills and survey,
Not a star to direct my lorn soul on her way.

I'm shorn of my strength and tho' few are my years,
The winter of life on my aspect appears;
Ay, the feeling of death steals apace round my core,
Like the sea-waves around yon lone rock on the shore.