From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, July 21, 1915. By Anonymous.

When I am laid below the hill,
    I pray you, friend, that you will not
Increase my virtues, if you will,
    Nor let my faults be all forgot.
But think of me as with you yet,
    The good and bad there is of me,
For truly I shall not forget
    In whatsoever place I be.

Nor tears, nor sighs, that I am dead,
    But rather that you sing and smile
And tell some favored jest, instead,
    As though I heard you all the while.
For I shall hear you, and shall see
    And know if you be blithe or sad,
For I shall keep and hold with me
    The golden moments we have had.

But will you miss me? Aye, forsooth,
    The very thing I’d have you do,
For in that stranger land, in truth,
    I also shall be missing you.
Yet life is such a goodly thing,
    Blent of the bitter and the sweet,
That I would rather we could cling
    To all the gladness we may meet.

When I am laid below the hill,
    Go back as though I walked with you,
And sing our brave old ballads still,
    And laugh as we were wont to do.
Across the little gap that bars
    I shall take this fair memory,
And you the other side the stars
    Will then still be the friend of me.