Mary, thou art gone to rest;
      Why should we deplore thee?
Light the turf lies on thy breast,
      Soft the winds breathe o'er thee.
Here within thy native clay
      Calmly thou art sleeping,
Safer, happier, far than they
      Who are o'er thee weeping.

Pleasant is thy lowly bed,
      Close to those that bore thee;
Trees, 'neath which thy childhood played,
      Gently waving o'er thee.
Hark the thrush!  how sweet his lay!
      See the flowers, how blooming!
"Weep not for the dead," they say,
      "Though in earth consuming.

"Weep not for her — she is gone
      "Where no cares can move her;
"All her earthly labours done,
      "All her trials over.
"Weep not — she has found a home
      "Where no sorrow paineth:
"Sin, nor tears, nor terrors come,
      "Where a Saviour reigneth."