The drooping willow weeps

Its dewy tear, beside the tomb

Where thy brave father sleeps.

Oh, ’twere a noble death to die!

My heart swells big with pride!

And though I weep, yet proud am I

To think how father died.

I wish that I were but a man,

In firemen’s rig I’d dress;

“Hurrah, my boys, don’t lag!” I’d shout