The cold storms of winter shall chill him no more,
His woes and his sorrows, his pains are all o'er;
The sod of the valley now covers his form,
'Friend after friend departs.'
And they are gone-that little band
Of friends-the firm and true!
We feel the void which absence makes,
Our sires who once in freedom's cause,
Their boasted freedom sought and won,
For deeds of glory gained applause,
Oh! mother, weep not, though our lot be hard,
And we are helpless-God will be our guard:
For He our heavenly guardian doth not sleep;