Low in the earth our cheiftain is laid
      His hands are palsied and still
His pulse does not throb, his voice is not heard
      His head and his heart are so cold.

Calmly he sleeps in his clean roomy bed
      Pure and white is his grave
And strong is the stone that is placed ore his head
      To mark his last place of repose.
— — — — — — — — — — —
Sweet may he sleep, disturb not his rest,
      For weary! so weary! was he,
Long persecuted, but valiant in truth,
      He rests, so calmly, and peaceful, he rests

Do not disturb him I pray
      For in a day not far distant, he,
Will rouse himself up
      As a lion coming forth from his lair
With strength that is mighty
      And love that is pure
To carry out plans in a more perfect way.

Speak not a word to dishonor his name—
      Lisp not a sound but in praise—
Close up the mouth that would sully his fame
      Or tarnish his honor in death.
Low in the dust he has bowed his head
      His spirit has soared away
He has gone where the wicked will trouble no more;
      The noble, the brave, and the true.