Sing me to sleep when I go West;
But sing you, soft and low,
No song from the olden masters'
Or I shall not want to go:
Not Schubert, wondrous harmonist,
Not great Beethoven, Grieg nor Liszt,
Nor any rare old melodist;
For I'd hate the passing so.

I'll hate to part with the good green trees
And the birds and the soft, kind sky;
For I've abiding love for these,
And I shall not want to die.
But, most of all, shall I doubly grieve
For the joys of earth when I have to leave
Those melodies to which I cleave
When the lust for life runs high.

Sing me to sleep when I go west
The latest thing you know
In jazz; and sing with brutal zest
While the saxophones moan low
And the squawkers squawk and the banjoes strum
To the bang and the boom of the big bass drum;
Then I'll come out for Kingdom Come
And gladly shall I go.