Dead And Gone

Can you tell me how he rests, Flowers, growing o’er him there? His a right warm heart, my sweets,-- So, cover it with care.

Can you tell me how he lies Such nights out in the cold, O cricket, with your plaintive call, O glow-worm, with your gold?

If my eyes are sorrowful, Well may they weep, I trow,-- Since his dead eyes gazed into them, They have been sad enow.

If my heart make moan and ache, Well may it break, I’m sure-- For his dead love is more, ah me! More than it can endure.