OH! come, come with me, to the old kirk yard,
I well know the path through the soft green sward.
Friends slumber there we were wont to regard,

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 in 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,

Why shouldst thou weep, dear love, for me:

I'm wayworn and sad, ah! why then retard

The rest that I seek in the old kirk yard?

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 't is my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,