The Young that Died in Beauty
If souls should only sheen so brightIn heaven as in e’thly light,An’ nothen better wer the cease,How comely still, in sheape an’ feace,Would many reach thik happy pleace, -The hopevul souls that in their primeHa’ seem’d a-took avore their time, -The young that died in beauty.
But when woone’s lim’s ha’ lost their strangthA-tweilen drough a lifetime’s langth,An’ over cheaks a-growen woldThe slowly-weasten years ha’ roll’dThe deep’nen wrinkle’s hollow vwold;When life is ripe, then death do callVor less ov thought, than when do vallOn young vo’ks in their beauty.
But pinen souls, wi’ heads a-hungIn heavy sorrow vor the young,The sister ov the brother dead,The father wi’ a child a-vled,The husband when his bride ha’ laidHer head at rest, noo mwore to turn,Have all a-vound the time to murnVor youth that died in beauty.
An’ yeet the church, where prayer do riseVrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes,An’ village greens, a-beat half beareBy dancers that do meet, an’ wearSuch merry looks at feast an’ feair,Do gather under leatest skies,Their bloomen cheaks an’ sparklen eyes,Though young ha’ died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keepThe beauty ov their early sleep;Where comely looks shall never wearUncomely, under tweil an' ceare.The feair at death be always feair,Still feair to livers’ thought an’ love,An’ feairer still to God above,Than when they died in beauty.
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