‘I wish I was where Anna lies;
For I am sick of lingering here,
And every hour Affection cries,
Go, and partake her humble bier.
‘I wish I could! for when she died
I lost my all; and life has prov’d
Since that sad hour a dreary void,
A waste unlovely and unlov’d.
‘But who, when I am turned to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,