And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Thou lambkin on yon hillock's brow,
That sportest in thy gamesome mood,
Play on! for thou remind'st me now
Of one as innocent and good;
All emblems dear, for thoughts you bring
Of her who loved you all to see,
When through the woods in early spring
Ilk bird seemed calling "Rosalie."

But there's a worm that loves the bud,
And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Far have I roamed for years and years,
As from my thoughts I fain would stray;
But here once more I weep my tears
O'er her now mouldering in the clay.
Oh! would that happy day were come
When death shall set my spirit free,
And I shall rise to yonder home,
And be again with Rosalie,

Where is no worm to gnaw the bud,
And none to blight the youthful bloom;
Where spirits sing in joyful mood,
"Behold our triumph o'er the tomb!"