If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in ethly light,
An nothen better wer the cease,
How comely still, in sheape an feace,
Would many reach thik happy pleace, -
The hopevul souls that in their prime
Ha seemd a-took avore their time, -
The young that died in beauty.
But when woones lims ha lost their strangth
A-tweilen drough a lifetimes langth,
An over cheaks a-growen wold
The slowly-weasten years ha rolld
The deepnen wrinkles hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young voks in their beauty.
But pinen souls, wi heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.
An yeet the church, where prayer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi downcast eyes,
An village greens, a-beat half beare
By dancers that do meet, an wear
Such merry looks at feast an feair,
Do gather under leatest skies,
Their bloomen cheaks an sparklen eyes,
Though young ha died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their early sleep;
Where comely looks shall never wear
Uncomely, under tweil an' ceare.
The feair at death be always feair,
Still feair to livers thought an love,
An feairer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.