Son of B.O. & B.
The Mountaineer Echo, January 27, 1888
Western Grove, Ark., Jan 23, 1888.
It becomes my painful duty to announce through the columns of your paper the death of William Silas Allen, son of Bitham and Barbra C. Allen, of this place, which occurred on the 20th instant, at 11 o'clock a.m.; aged fourteen years, one month and twenty-one days. The writer was called to attend the funeral on Saturday, 21st, and in the presence of a large assembly of sympathising friends we deposited his body in the tomb to await the great day of the Lord.
Dear is the spot where children sleep,
And sweet the strains the angel's pore.
O, why should we in anguish weep?
They are not lost, but gone before.
Secure from every mortal care,
By sin and sorrow vexed no more;
Eternal happiness they share
Who are not lost, but gone before
To Zion's peaceful courts above,
In faith triumphant may we scar,
Embracing, in the arms of love,
The friends not lost, but gone before.
To Joran's bank when e'er we come,
And hear the swelling waters roar,
Jesus, convey us safely home,
To friends not lost, but gone before.
W.D. Keltner.
Son of B.O. & B.
The Mountaineer Echo, January 27, 1888
Western Grove, Ark., Jan 23, 1888.
It becomes my painful duty to announce through the columns of your paper the death of William Silas Allen, son of Bitham and Barbra C. Allen, of this place, which occurred on the 20th instant, at 11 o'clock a.m.; aged fourteen years, one month and twenty-one days. The writer was called to attend the funeral on Saturday, 21st, and in the presence of a large assembly of sympathising friends we deposited his body in the tomb to await the great day of the Lord.
Dear is the spot where children sleep,
And sweet the strains the angel's pore.
O, why should we in anguish weep?
They are not lost, but gone before.
Secure from every mortal care,
By sin and sorrow vexed no more;
Eternal happiness they share
Who are not lost, but gone before
To Zion's peaceful courts above,
In faith triumphant may we scar,
Embracing, in the arms of love,
The friends not lost, but gone before.
To Joran's bank when e'er we come,
And hear the swelling waters roar,
Jesus, convey us safely home,
To friends not lost, but gone before.
W.D. Keltner.
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