th all us _old_ ones in the camp,
For that little child to go!
It's right the old should die, but that
A harmless little child
Should miss the joy uv life 'nd love--
_That_ can't be reconciled!
That's what we thought that summer day,
And that is what we said
Ez we looked upon the piteous face
Uv Marthy's younkit dead;
But for his mother sobbin'
The house wuz very still,
And Sorry Tom wuz lookin' through
The winder down the hill
To the patch beneath the hemlocks
Where his darlin' used to play,
And the mountain brook sung lonesomelike
And loitered on its way.

A preacher come from Roarin' Forks
To comfort 'em 'nd pray,
And all the camp wuz present
At the obsequies next day,
A female teacher staged it twenty miles
To sing a hymn,
And we jined her in the chorus--
Big, husky men 'nd grim
Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul,"
And then the preacher prayed
And preacht a sermon on the death
Uv that fair blossom laid
Among them other flow'rs he loved--
Which sermon set sech weight
On sinners bein' always heelt
Against the future state
That, though it had been fash'nable
To swear a perfect streak,
There warnt no swearin' in the camp
For pretty nigh a week!

Last thing uv all, six strappin' men
Took up the little load
And bore it tenderly along
The windin' rocky road
To where the coroner had dug
A grave beside the brook--
In sight uv Marthy's winder, where
The same could set and look
And wonder if his cradle in
That green patch long 'nd wide
Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that
Wuz empty at her side;
And wonder of the mournful songs
The pines wuz singin' then
Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies
She'd never sing again;
And if the bosom uv the earth
In which he lay at rest
Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm
Ez wuz his mother's breast.

The camp is gone, but Red Hoss mountain
Rears its kindly head
And looks down sort uv tenderly,
Upon its cherished dead;
And I reckon that, through all the years
That little boy wich died
Sleeps sweetly 'nd contentedly
Upon the mountain-side;
That the wild flowers of the summer time
Bend down their heads to hear
The footfall uv a little friend they
Know not slumbers near;
That the magpies on the sollum rocks
Strange flutterin' shadders make.
And the pines 'nd hemlocks wo