My brother, O, come back to play,
For all the flow'rs are springing gay,
And all the birds sing on the spray;
So, come back, my brother.

'Twas winter when you hung your head,
And lay so pale upon your bed,
And mother told me you were dead,
My poor little brother.

Then the birds all went away,
And all the leaves fell from the spray,
And all the streams forgot to play,
Just like you, my brother.

Then deep fell the drifting snow,
And loud the wintry winds did blow,
And all the flow'rs were buried low,
Just like you, my brother.

But now the sun is riding high,--
The busy bee comes humming by,
And spring's soft gales around us sigh;
O come back, my brother.

Your little rose-bush springs to view,
Your daffodils and daisies too,
And ev'rything comes back but you,
My poor little brother.

O, could I ope the grassy mound,
With which your lovely form is bound,
And break your slumber, so profound,
My poor little brother.

Then gentle mother'd cease to mourn,
And speak to me in that sad tone;
And pity me because alone;
O, come back, my brother.

And yet, I know, it cannot be,
That thou wilt ever come to me;
But I must shortly go to thee,
My poor little brother.

I know that thy once lovely form,
Now feeds the cruel coffin worm,--
And that corruption doth deform
All traces of my brother,

I know that life will swiftly glide,--
That death's bark floats upon the tide,
And soon will lay me by your side,
My dear buried brother.

Then may our souls together reign,
On yonder bright, aerial plain,
And shout a loud, seraphic strain,
In happiness, my brother.