Lay me not 'neath a stately pile,
Proudly 'mid others rising ;
Bury me not in the fretted vault ;-
They are below my prizing: -
But carry me to the grass-grown grave,
Where she is sleeping before me ;
And let that grave with flowers be strown,
And a willow waving o'er me.

Let no storied marble tell
Of the dust that lies beneath it ;
Let no sculptur'd mourner be there,
Nor chissell'd garland enwreath it ;
But plant it with flowers of fleeting bloom,
As the fittest and fairest token,
To tell the pensive passer-by
The heart that lies there was broken.