Speak of the honours that were at his option,
Since he came here a fair lad of nineteen.
That upward has his path been ever since,
To sit among the first a merchant prince.

The "never more" chills through the friendly praises,
Never to see his face, his coming form;
Never his foot shall stand on Antrim daisies,
Or tread again the Parks of old Galgorm;
Nor sleep among his fathers, silent, still,
Beneath the sycamores in fair Grace Hill.

His mother in her island home is weeping,
For what her eyes desired she shall not see;
The fair young wife her widowed vigil keeping
Among her babes on this side of the sea--
One in their sorrow which is all too deep
For comfort--theirs to sit apart and weep.

Mother and wife one in their poignant grieving,
One in their anguish over lifeless clay;
One in the consolation of believing
That he was worthy who has passed away.
By sorrow consecrate and set apart,
To ponder all the past within their heart.

The mother, with her heartstrings quivering after
The Master's stroke, sits underneath the cross;
The sad wife stilling all the childish laughter
Of his sweet babes, too young to feel their loss.