If souls should only sheen so bright 
In 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 prime 
Ha? seem?d a?took avore their time, ? 
The young that died in beauty. 

But when woone?s lim?s ha? lost their strangth 
A?tweilen drough a lifetime?s langth, 
An? over cheaks a-growen wold 
The slowly-weasten years ha? roll?d 
The deep?nen wrinkle?s hollow vwold; 
When life is ripe, then death do call 
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall 
On young vo?ks in their beauty. 

But pinen souls, wi? heads a-hung 
In heavy sorrow vor the young, 
The sister ov the brother dead, 
The father wi? a child a?vled, 
The husband when his bride ha? laid 
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, 
Have all a-vound the time to murn 
Vor youth that died in beauty. 

An? yeet the church, where prayer do rise 
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi? downcast eyes, 
An? village greens, a?beat half beare 
By dancers that do meet, an? wear 
Such 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 keep 
The beauty ov their early sleep; 
Where comely looks shall never wear 
Uncomely, 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.