Warbling her soft and mournful plaint, in melancholy mood.
Along the solitary road, with slow and solemn tread,
Now move the mourners who attend the burial of the dead;
The stranger and the forest-born, the parent and the child,
Go with him to his early grave in yonder western wild;
They weep for her who weepeth not, for, ah! too well they know
That soon, in perfect loneliness, a widow’s tears must flow!
Behold them “on their winding way!” how mournfully they move!
And now they’ve reach’d that resting place, in yonder shady grove;
Not weary of this tiresome world, was he who there shall rest,