Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flow'rets around
to yon new sodded grave as your slow steps advance?
In yon new sodded grave - ever dear be the ground! -
lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.
And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,
no longer the sport of misfortune and chance!
Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow
for the stanger ye lov'd, the poor exile of France.

Oh! kind was his nature though bitter his fate,
and gay was his converse though broken his heart;
no comfort, no hope his own breast cou'd elate,
though comfort and hope he to all cou'd impart.
Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain
still foremost was he mirth and pleasure to raise.
How sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain
when he sung me the song of more fortunate days!

One pleasure he knew in his straw-cover'd shed,
for the snow beaten beggar his faggot to trim.
One tear of delight he cou'd drop on the bread
which he shar'd with the poor, the still poorer than him!
And when round his deathbed profusely we cast
ev'ry gift, ev'ry solace our hamlet cou'd bring,
he blest us with sighs we thought were his last,
but he still had a pray'r for his country and king!

Poor exile, adieu! Undisturb'd be thy sleep
from the feast, from the wake, from the village-green dance.
How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep
o'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France!
To the church-bidden bride shall thy mem'ry impart
one pang, as her eyes on the cold relics glance,
one flow'r from her garland, one tear from her heart
shall drop on the grave of the exile of France.