Sleep on, oh little pioneer,
                                            Amid the damp encrusted bark.
                                    Your body, on the hill, so drear,
                                            Has lain through daylight and through dark.

                                    Sleep on, and dream of wagon trains
                                            While plodding on we westward go.
                                    And pull our handcarts over plains
                                            To valleys bare; our journey slow.

                                    We know of many joy-filled days
                                            You frolicked as all children do,
                                    And you were taught our pioneer ways
                                            By friendly migrants of Nauvoo.

                                    Your nody lies beneath the sod.
                                            Your spirit holds a place on high . . .
                                    We know that you now dwell with God.
                                            In truth you surely did not die.

                                    Our memories of your boyish face
                                            Will linger through the years.
                                    And angels gaurd this hallowed place
                                            With mercy for our tears.

                                                    -- Nina L. Prestwich - 1992