Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Willie always did like a good pun. Chimney sweepers come to dust - what a gas, har har! Makes me consider writing one on too-frequent masturbation.
Anyway, if we are all gonna come to dust (die in the end), why be afraid? Nobody escapes, ya know. Or hasn't yet. What with advances in the fileds of how life really works, we could be the last generation that *has* to die. Yuck, what a thought. Now where did I put that bottle of Wild Turkey?
Extract: 'In one of his loveliest songs the dramatist writes, "Golden lads and girls all must, /As chimney-sweepers, come to dust." In Warwickshire vernacular dialect, a dandelion is a "golden lad" when in flower, a "chimney-sweeper" when ready to be blown to the wind. This does not feel like a lord's memory. It belongs to a local country boy in a Warwickshire field.'
I have to admit I have chased this topic around a bit myself, so I found the pages interesting. Not entirely compelling, but quite interesting nevertheless, thanks for the link.