DEAD AT THE BIRCHES by Moses Teggart, Springfield, Mass. U.S.A. June 19, 1899. |
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Be still, be still, thou bonny lark, Nor sing so loud and gay! The lips are closed, the blue eyes dark That lately made my day. Sophia - one now with the wise, Dead at the Birches lies. Thou red rose in the garden, weep! My lily's cold and white, And folded in her long last sleep - Alone with God and night, Sophia - one now with the wise, Dead at the Birches lies. |
Cry, cry for rain, thou wet-my-lip; And when a teem comes down, Thy young once of their shelter strip Among the sorrel brown. Sophia - one now with the wise, Dead at the Birches lies. No more together we shall see The lilies bloom and blow; No more - O nevermore with me To Milltown church she'll go. Sophia - one now with the wise, Dead at the Birches lies. |
The "post" at morning comes across The moss with grief and moan, - The poor old man he feels my loss As if it were his own. Sophia - one now with the wise, Dead at the Birches lies. O Thou whose name is Life and Love, Two souls together twine! O Liza, from thy heaven above, Look down on me and mine. Sophia - one now with the wise Dead at the Birches lies. |