Sing no songs of love or pleasure
nor to me red roses give.
Play for me a mournful measure -
sins of mine may god forgive -
of this living I've grown weary
miserere. miserere.
dreary is the life I live.
Sing for me the dirges dreary,
sadly scatter rue around.
Of this living I am weary,
I would lay me where the ground
heaves her hollow breast amound.
miserere. miserere.
Make for me a mournful sound















but excellent in write! 
24 old applause
