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?
Personal/Musical: A Treasure! From Donovan!
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