Wirastrua, Wirastrua, Woe To Me That You Are Dead! The Corpse Has Spoken From Out His Bed, 'Yesternight My Burning Brain Throbbed And Beat On The Strings Of Pain: Now I Rest, All My Dreaming'S Done, In The World Behind The Sun. Yesterday I Toiled Full Sore, To-Day I Ride In A Coach And Four. Yesternight In The Streets I Lay, To-Night With Kings, And As Good As They.' Wirastrua! Wirastrua! Would I Were Lying As Cold As You.