A song to the brave of ye olden time,
Who rest where the night hangs low,
Where never a breeze of the morning stirs,
And only the death-lamps glow.
Where ever and ever, a-side by side,
The prince and the pauper dwell,
While the summer blooms and the autumn fades
And the winter weaves its spell
Through the leafless boughs, and the snow descends,
And wraps them all as one,