Waken, waken from thy trance,

Speak a word or cast a glance!

Pity thou thy children’s lot!

Rise, O mother, leave us not!

Death triumphant, woe is me,

From thy children snatcheth thee!

To the wall hast turned thee now,

Son nor daughter heedest thou.

Laid the church-yard sod beneath,

Thou shalt feel no breeze’s breath