Brush the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now—
Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once, for somebody’s sake,
Murmur a prayer, soft and low.
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody’s pride, you know.
Somebody’s hand hath rested there,
Was it a mother’s, soft and white;
Or have the lips of a sister fair