A Dirge Poem by Peter John Allan

There lies a land beyond the wave
Of time's tempestuous flood;
Our dreary bank must be the grave,
And Death our pilot good,
If we would reach that wish'd-for land,
And mingle with its happy band.

No Envy there, a bloodhound grim,
Pursues us on our way;
The eye of Avarice is dim;
There Rapine does not prey.
We leave, in that blessed pilgrimage,
Age, and the woes that wait on age.

Then let me bid this world farewell,
And hearts I loved the best;
For who on earth would wish to dwell
When Heaven offers rest?
The gospel shall my compass be;
Now, Death, I dare put forth with thee.