How grateful to the mourning bosoms there,
The friendly sympathy of old and young!
Cold hearted and unfriendly call ye these—
The natives of the north? It is not so;
My fellow Southrons! If the hand of God
Shall ever lay you low, when far from home,
Among your breth’ren of the frozen north,
I know, dear friends! I know ye’ll see them shed
With the dejected mourner, tear for tear.
Sweetly the voices round that young girl’s grave,