Where western winds fan “hills of black,”
’Mid lovely flowers, and golden scenes,
They laid our loved one down to rest.
Where brightest birds, with silvery wings,
Sing their sweet songs upon her grave,
And the moonbeam’s soft and pearly beams
With prairie grasses o’er it wave.
No simple stone e’er marks the spot
Where Mary sleeps in dreamless sleep,
But the moaning wind, with mournful sound,