The Spring Of The Year

Gone were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.

Cold 's the snow at my head,
And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death 's at my e'en,
Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father
Or my mother so dear,-
I'll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.