Dead March

The body comes!—we'll meet it on the way, With laurels ever green, and branches palm, Then lay it on his monument, hung round, With all his trophies and great acts, enroll'd In verse heroic, or sweet lyre song. There shall Columbia's valiant youth resort; And from his memory, inflame their breasts To matchless valor, whilst they sing his praise.

Bring the laurels, bring the bays; Strew his hearse, and strew his ways.

Glorious Hero, may thy grave, Peace and honor, ever have; After all thy pains and woes, Rest eternal, sweet repose.

Mourn, mourn, Columbians! Mourn in solemn strains, The name of him you lov'd, alone remains! Your hopes in his support, from hence gave o'er, Your Hero, Friend and Father is no more.