Who in the days that tried men’s souls Did ne’er from duty quail, But wrought on ensign, lifted high, There’s no such word as fail! Mem’ries so sweet are hov’ring round, That I, with Psalmist, say “O! had I wings like turtle dove, Quickly I’d fly away!”

Away, away beyond the hills Where blooms the tree of life, Where limpid streams whose silent flow, Ne’er stir the sea of strife. Oh! Bishop, Pastor, Friend, may’st thou To green old age be spared; Then, like a fully ripened ear Go to thy rich reward.