Are in the icy keeping of the sod!
Aye, my own boy! thy sire
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
And the proud glory of my life hath past,
With his high glance of fire.
Wo! that the linden and the vine should bloom,
And a just man be gathered to the tomb!
Why, bear them proudly, boy!
It is the sword he girded to his thigh,
It is the helm he wore in victory!