On the far hill, where all your people love you
Silent you lie,
'Neath the Scotch cross that rises there above you
Under the sky.

Stanch as its stone, the hand you held out gladly,
To meet the need
Of those who turned to you; whOnow greet sadly
What was decreed.

Deep in your heart's far innermost recesses,
You held your Own,—
Scorning all lighter loves and their caresses—
You gave alone

All that you had—and it was worth the keeping—
To those who bore
Your honored name. Ah! may you now be reaping
That love—and more!