ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away
like a dream; why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my
friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the
hill; when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and
mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He
shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my
friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!