_To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?”
Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending,
And soothe a mind with sorrow rending;
Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow,
But close this night the sigh of sorrow;
Then, if some wand’rer here directed
Shall find my mossy grave neglected,
May he replace the weed that’s growing
With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing!