I lost my kind companion this Friday was a week,
The likes of him, my decent man, you might go far to seek.
'Tis woeful now, my comrade gone,
To be so sad and lone,
Myself upon the green earth still,
An' him beneath a stone.

A quiet man he always was, and quietly he died,
With ne'er a word and ne'er a call to bring me to his side.
My grief, my grief! the way I am
To sit here lone and sad,
An' never see himself, or hear
The kindly word he had.

Ah! whisper, honey, quare old ways I have for lettin' on
That he's still in it all the time I know his body's gone.
For sometimes when I wet the tay,
I do be talking fast,
Pretending all the whiles himself
Will answer me at last.

An' sometimes, sitting by the fire, I think I hear his tread,
“'Tis sure himself,” I say those times, “that's stirrin' overhead.”
'Tis only notions that I have
That do divert my mind,
When waiting here in lonesomeness
I hear the rising wind.

'Tis closing in on fifty year since him and me got wed,
A quiet man he always was, an' few the words he said;
But sure he had a right itself
To take me with him too.
My quiet kind companion,
That God may welcome you!