Dead At The Birches

DEAD AT THE BIRCHES
(written for a friend)

by Moses Teggart, Springfield, Mass. U.S.A. June 19, 1899.

Sophia of the red-gold hair
And laughing eyes of blue,
Soft crimson mouth, and two cheeks fair,
As roses washed in dew,-
Sophia - one now with the wise,
Dead at the Birches lies.

*****

Be still, be still, thou bonny lark,
Nor sing so loud and gay!
The lips are closed, the blue eyes dark
That lately made my day.
Sophia - one now with the wise,
Dead at the Birches lies.

Thou red rose in the garden, weep!
My lily's cold and white,
And folded in her long last sleep -
Alone with God and night,
Sophia - one now with the wise,
Dead at the Birches lies.

Cry, cry for rain, thou wet-my-lip;
And when a teem comes down,
Thy young once of their shelter strip
Among the sorrel brown.
Sophia - one now with the wise,
Dead at the Birches lies.

No more together we shall see
The lilies bloom and blow;
No more - O nevermore with me
To Milltown church she'll go.
Sophia - one now with the wise,
Dead at the Birches lies.

The "post" at morning comes across
The moss with grief and moan, -
The poor old man he feels my loss
As if it were his own.
Sophia - one now with the wise,
Dead at the Birches lies.

O Thou whose name is Life and Love,
Two souls together twine!
O Liza, from thy heaven above,
Look down on me and mine.
Sophia - one now with the wise
Dead at the Birches lies.