This thread needs some updating. Here's the Southern Harmony version of the music.

Here's the very long broadside version as reproduced from American Memory American Song Sheet collection.

The white pilgrim. Andrews, Printer, 38 Chatham Street, N. Y. [n. d.]

I came to the spot where the white pilgrim lay,
And pensively stood by his tomb,
When in a low whisper I heard something say,
How quiet I sleep here alone.

The tempest may howl, and the loud thunders roll,
And gathering storms may arise,
Yet calm are my feelings, at rest in my soul,
The tears are all wiped from my eyes.

The cause of my master propelled me from home,
I bade my companions farewell,
I left my dear children, who for me now mourn,
In far distant regions to dwell.

I wandered an exile and stranger below,
To publish salvation abroad,
The trump of the gospel endeavored to blow,
Inviting poor sinners to God.

But when among strangers, and far from my home,
No kindred or relative nigh,
I met the contagion and sunk in the tomb,
My spirit to mansions on high.

O tell my companion and children most dear,
To weep not for Joseph, though gone,
That same hand which led me through scenes so drear,
Has kindly assisted me home.

I called at the house of his widow below,
I entered the mansion of grief,
Where tears of deep sorrow most freely did flow,
I tried, but could give no relief.

There sat a lone widow, dejected and sad,
By affliction and sorrow oppressed,
And there with her children in mourning arrayed,
And sighs were escaping her breast.

I spoke to the widow concerning her grief,
I asked her the cause of her wo,
And why there was nothing could give her relief,
Or soothe her affliction below.

She looked at her children, then looked at me,
That look I shall never forget,
More eloquent far than a seraph could be,
It spake of the trials she met.

The hand of affliction falls heavily now,
I am called with my children to mourn,
The friend of my youth, lies silent and low,
In yonder cold grave yard alone.

But why should I mourn or feel to complain,
Or think that my portion is hard,
Have I met with affliction 'tis surely his gain,
He has entered the joys of his Lord.

His work is completed and finished below,
His last tear has fallen I trust,
Has preached his last sermon, has met his last foe,
Has conquered and now is at rest.

Though dead he yet speaketh, poor sinner to you,
Who hath hath him proclaim the glad word,
Repent of your sins, for your days are but few,
You'll soon meet at the bar of your God.