A saddened cry Echoes o'er the endless plain, As we trudge on And a mother weeps. A pile of stones Hides the fresh, shallow grave Where lies yet another Sickness-claimed child. A darkening sky And frozen grass surround us, But better than the persecution By the mobs in Nauvoo. A whispering snow Begins to fall upon us, As we mourn a loss And add a child to our dead. A mourning song Is heard as the wave Of pioneers heads slowly west, Leaving behind an unmarked grave.