Oh come, come with me, to the old churchyard,
I well know the path thro’ the soft green sward;
Our friends slumber there, we were wont to regard,
We’ll trace out their names, in the old churchyard.

Oh, mourn not for them, their grief is o’er,
Weep not for them, they weep no more;

For deep is their sleep, though cold and hard,
Their pillows may be in the old churchyard.

Our friends linger there, in the sweetest repose,
In quietude sweet, in the old churchyard,
Released from the worlds sad bereavments and woes;
And who would not rest with the friends they regard?

We’ll rest in the hope of that bright day,
When beauty’ll spring from the prison of clay,

When Gabriels voice and the trump of the Lord,
Shall awaken the dead in the old churchyard.

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