Down on their kneels they droop
At the whisper of their hero’s death;
And to his tomb they did troop
For he had been virtuous since birth.
 
He was buried at the late hour of the night
O’er the seas and coasts of the land;
That he may never witness daylight
But for him to return to sand.
 
Not in worthless coffin he dwell
But in sparkling one like gold;
Not a dunce rang his knell
But a famous one and bold.
 
There they then have his kerb
Drenched with sorts of precious stones;
And dressed like a spider’s web
In a number of thousand tonnes.
 
For the funeral a keen was rendered
For he lay rotten on the ground;
Before him each soul was tendered
‘Twas a piteous sight to see all around.
 
Brief and short, his prayers were said
In deep pang they all sorrow;
Thinking of the brave one that was dead
And sorrowfully thought of the morrow.
 

Gently and sadly they placed him down
Into the grave with his honour;
And there with his gong gown
Was left forever with his splendour.