O Barrow! well may'st thou deplore The kindly heart that beats no more— The life that now is ended. He was thy friend—a friend indeed, He proved it in the hour of need, For none went unbefriended.
His death has come like a cruel blow To many a cottage home, I know, For the poor they held him dear; And many eyes with tears are dim, As faltering voices speak of him They truly did revere.
The fragrant flowers, whose sweet perfume Made beautiful the yawning tomb, Will wither and decay; But the memory of his kindliness, His ever ready helpfulness, Will never pass away.
In fancy I followed, mournful and slow, In the wake of the great procession of woe, Which bore him on to his rest. And, as I thought of the widow's tears, Thought of the poor and their grateful prayers, I felt, nay, knew he was blest.
And now, alas! he is numbered Amongst the cold and silent dead. Can such men die? No, never! Spirit and body may depart, But his kindly hand, his generous heart Has made him ours for ever.
