The flowers which smile and blossom, the cottages of Wales.



Go and Dig a Grave for me.


Go and dig a grave for me,
This is but a world of woe:
Vanish all the joys of life,
Like the clouds which come and go:
And the weary finds no rest
Save within the grave's cold breast.

Go and dig a grave for me,
Weary pilgrim here am I,
Through life's dark and stormy ways
Wandering with a mournful cry.
Nought to clasp to my poor breast
Save the staff whereon I rest.

Go and dig a grave for me,
'Neath some green and shady tree,
Where the kindly breeze will make
Mournful music over me.
Oh how pleasant 'twill be there
For the weak, lone wanderer!

Go and dig a grave for me,
For my journey's nearly o'er;