If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.
To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see
The blossom on  the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again:
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave.
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
You'll bury me,  my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come  sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive  me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep,  nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you  have another child.
If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Tho' you'll  not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho' I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you  say,
And be often, often with you when you think  I'm far away.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore,
And you  see me carried out from the threshold of the door;
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,
So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
[Footnote 1: 1833. The may upon.]
[Footnote 2: 1833. Ye'll bury me.]
[Footnote 3: 1833. And ye'll come.]
[Footnote 4: 1833. I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when] ye pass.
[Footnote 5: 1833. But ye'll forgive.]
[Footnote 6: 1833. Ye'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow.] 1850. And foregive me ere I go.
[Footnote 7: 1833. Ye must not weep.]
[Footnote 8: 1833. Ye ... ye.]
[Footnote 9: 1833. Ye'll.]
[Footnote 10: 1833. Ye.]
[Footnote 11: 1833. Ye when ye think.]
[Footnote 12: 1833. Ye.]
[Footnote 13: 1833. Call me when it begins to dawn. 1842. Before the day] is born.