COME, bring me wild pinks from the valleys, Ablaze with the fire o' the sun -- No poor little pitiful lilies That speak of a life that is done! And open the windows to lighten The wearisome chamber of pain -- The eyes of my darling will brighten To see the green hill-tops again. Choose tunes with a lullaby flowing, And sing through the watches you keep Be soft with your coming and going -- Be soft! she is falling asleep. Ah, what would my life be without her! Pray God that I never may know! Dear friends, as you gather about her, Be low with your weeping -- be low. Be low, oh, be low with your weeping! Your sobs would be sorrow to her; I tremble lest while she is sleeping A rose on her pillow should stir. Sing slower, sing softer and slower! Her sweet cheek is losing its red -- Sing low, aye, sing lower and lower -- Be still, oh, be still! She is dead. |