No mourners come, as ’tis believed the sight
Of any death or sickness now, begets the same.
And those brave hearts that volunteered to touch
Plague-stricken death, are tender as they’re brave;
They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch,
And shade their swimming eyes while laying her in the grave.
I stand within that grave, nor wide nor deep,
The slender-wasted body at my feet;
What wonder is it, if strong men will weep
O’er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding-sheet!