The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood,

Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood.

Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb,

And shades dissolving in eternal gloom.

Nay! rather let me hear some lively air,

Whose Springtime notes suggest a morning fair,

Filled with the pulsing joys that life can give,

On this old earth, for oh! ’tis sweet to live.