We’ll trace out their names in the old kirk-yard.
Oh, mourn not for them, their grief is o’er,
Oh, weep not for them, they weep no more.
For deep is their sleep, though cold and hard,
Their pillow may be in the old kirk-yard.
I know it is vain when friends depart,
To breathe kind words to a broken heart;
I know that the joy of life seems marr’d;
When we follow them home to the old kirk-yard.
But were I at rest beneath yon tree,