''Father, wake--the storm is loud,
The rain is falling fast:
Let me go to my mother's grave,
And screen it from the blast:
She cannot sleep, she will not rest,
The wind is roaring so;
We prayed that she might lie in peace:
My father, let us go.''

''Thy mother sleeps too firm a sleep
To heed the wind that blows;
There are angel--charms that hush the noise
From reaching her repose.
Her spirit in dreams of the blessed Land
Is sitting at Jesu's feet;
Child, nestle thee in mine arms, and pray
Our rest may be as sweet.''