The free wild winds and the songs of the birds;
I have thought of home, of cot, and of bower,
And of scenes that I loved in childhood’s hour,
I had even hoped to be laid, when I died,
In the churchyard there on the green hill-side,
By the homes of my father my grave should be,—
Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea.
“Let my death slumbers be where a mother’s prayer,
And a sister’s tear shall be mingled there;
It will be sweet ere the heart’s gentle throb is o’er,