Chill frost will nip the fairest flower;
The sweetest dream is soonest pass'd;
The brightest morning in an hour,
May be with storm clouds overcast.

So Josephine in early bloom,
Was blighted by death's cruel blast,
While weeping round her early tomb,
We joy to know, she is not lost.

Fond mother, dry that tearful tide,
Your child will not return, you know:
She's waiting on the other side
And where she is, you too may go.