O the drums are so mournful
My dear oh 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
O green are the leaves on the old apple tree
Those sweet perfumed blossoms of spring
Entwined in your hair a smile in your eyes
The soft blade of gra** for a ring
Warm are the loaves that cool on the sill
To the song of the clear trickling stream
The good clean smell of the rough woven sheets
The song of the children at play
O the drums are so mournful
My dear oh 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