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O the drums are so mournful |
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My dear oh my love |
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As my thoughts they are turning your way |
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Where are the eyes I beheld with my own |
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On that long ago lazy day |
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Dead are the deeds on the stark battlefield |
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The stench of the flesh sickens me |
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I slept soaking wet and the worms ate my bread |
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And the mourning of men filled the air |
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O green are the leaves on the old apple tree |
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Those sweet perfumed blossoms of spring |
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Entwined in your hair a smile in your eyes |
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The soft blade of grass for a ring |
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Warm are the loaves that cool on the sill |
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To the song of the clear trickling stream |
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The good clean smell of the rough woven sheets |
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The song of the children at play |
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O the drums are so mournful |
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My dear oh my love |
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As my thoughts they are turning your way |
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where are the eyes I beheld with my own |
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On that long ago lazy day |
