Or the love of folks older than we,
Or possibly wiser than we;
But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,
Was rather too many for me;
He closed the peepers and silenced the breath,
Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee,
And her form lies cold in the prairie mould,
Silent and cold—Ah me!
The foot of the hunter shall press her grave,
And the prairie’s sweet wild flowers,