Hail, ye sighing sons of sorrow
Anonymous, sung in Primitive Baptist churches
Source : Goble 104
Hail, ye sighing sons of sorrow,
- View with me th autumnal gloom,
Learn from thence your fate tomorrow;
- Dead perhaps, laid in the tomb.
See all nature fading, dying,
- Silent, all things seem to mourn,
Life, from vegetation flying,
- Brings to mind the mouldring urn.
Oft when autumns tempest rising
- Makes the lofty forest nod,
Scenes of nature how surprising:
- Read in nature natures God.
See, the sovreign, sole Creator
- Lives eternal in the skies,
Whilst we mortals yield to nature,
- Bloom awhile, then fade and die.
Lo! I hear the air resounding,
- With expiring insects cries;
Ah! their moans to me how wounding,
- Emblems of my age and sighs.
Hollow winds around me roaring,
- Noisy waters round me rise,
Whilst I sit my fate deploring,
- Tears fast streaming from my eyes.
What to me is autumns treasure,
- Since I know no earthly joy?
Long Ive lost all youthful pleasure,
- Time must youth and health destroy.
Pleasures once I fondly courted,
- Shared each bliss that health bestows,
But to see where then I sported
- Now embitters all my woes.
Age and sorrow since have blasted
- Evry youthful, pleasing dream;
Quivring age with youth contrasted,
- O, how short their glories seem!
As the annual frosts are cropping
- Leaves and tendrils from the trees,
So my friends are yearly dropping,
- Through old age and dire disease.
Former friends, O, how Ive sought them!
- Just to cheer my drooping mind;
But theyre gone like leaves in autumn,
- Drivn before a dreary wind.
Spring and summer, fall and winter,
- Each in swift succession roll,
So my friends in death do enter,
- Bringing sadness to my soul.
Death has laid them down to slumber;
- Solemn thought, to think that I
Soon must be one of that number!
- Soon ah, soon, with them to lie!
When a few more years are wasted,
- When a few more scenes are oer,
When a few more griefs are tasted,
- I shall fall to rise no more.
Fast my sun of life declining,
- Soon will set in endless night:
But my hope, pure and refining,
- Rests in future life and light.
Cease this fearing, trembling, sighing,
- Death will break the sudden gloom;
Soon my spirit, fluttring, flying,
- Must be borne beyond the tomb.
Melodio: HOLY MANNA
William MOORE Columbian Harmony, 1825
estas parto de
la TTTejo de
Liland Brajant Ros'