Unless they have women, and music, and dancing,
Forever unheeded by me they may sing.
Oh! take not the sunshine that knows no to-morrow,
The rivers of honey and fountains of bliss,
Where the souls of the righteous may rest from their
sorrow—
They have not a joy that is equal to this.
When the dead from their graves stand in awe and des
ponding,
And the trumpet calls loud on that terrible day,