Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.
If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:
She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.