If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in eâ€™thly light, Anâ€™ nothen better wer the cease, How comely still, in sheape anâ€™ feace, Would many reach thik happy pleace, - The hopevul souls that in their prime Haâ€™ seemâ€™d a-took avore their time, - The young that died in beauty.
But when wooneâ€™s limâ€™s haâ€™ lost their strangth A-tweilen drough a lifetimeâ€™s langth, Anâ€™ over cheaks a-growen wold The slowly-weasten years haâ€™ rollâ€™d The deepâ€™nen wrinkleâ€™s hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young voâ€™ks in their beauty.
But pinen souls, wiâ€™ heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wiâ€™ a child a-vled, The husband when his bride haâ€™ laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty.
Anâ€™ yeet the church, where prayer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wiâ€™ downcast eyes, Anâ€™ village greens, a-beat half beare By dancers that do meet, anâ€™ wear Such merry looks at feast anâ€™ feair, Do gather under leatest skies, Their bloomen cheaks anâ€™ sparklen eyes, Though young haâ€™ 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 liversâ€™ thought anâ€™ love, Anâ€™ feairer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty.