Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds,
As though ye fain would seek
Some quiet rest ye cannot find,
In this cold world so bleak.
Sound on, sound on; ye bring to mind
The bright and joyful past;
The golden hours of sunny yore,
That were too bright to last. PSAS 108.4
Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds,
Like thee, ‘mid bitter tears,
In vain I sigh for brighter days,
In other happier years. PSAS 108.5
Sound on, sound on; ye seem to tell
That all things here decay;
The brightest flowers the soonest oft
Will droop and pass away. PSAS 109.1
Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds;
Thy strange, mysterious voice
Seems like some spirit hovering near,
Bidding my heart rejoice.
Sound on, sound on; for oh! ye’ve power
To soothe each rising sigh,
And waft my spirit far away,
Where pleasures never die. PSAS 109.2