Thou, thou poor sheep of the Lord,
Now that thou art still as a stone,
And to none thou canst not say a word,
To friends of thine all but forlon
As wilted marigold upon a grave,
With eyes melting with saddest tears
Galloping down like as a lonely wave
Doth rove from shores to shores,
May thee know wherever thee wander,
Thy ineffably mellifluous melodies
To our ears shalt always be a wonder,
Pleasantly sweet as of early songbirds
Till by celestial shores we'll meet again,
And there we'll shed a tear nevermore;
For there's no sorrow nor pain
But rivers of mirth forevemore.