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