Be that for them they cannot be,
But which it gives them joy to see,
Youth goes and glee; but not in vain,
Young folks, if only you remain.
Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;
The dry red leaves on winter’s tree,
Can feel the new sap rising free.
On, on, young folks; so you survive,
The dead themselves are still alive;
The blood in dull parental veins