XXIX.
"We sang the old familiar songs—
We sang them at the loom;
We sang of light, and love, and joy,
When all around was gloom.
O then, O then—the bitter tears
Rose to each aching eye—
O were we but once more at home,
Though only there to die!
"We sang the old familiar songs—
We sang them at the loom;
We sang of light, and love, and joy,
When all around was gloom.
O then, O then—the bitter tears
Rose to each aching eye—
O were we but once more at home,
Though only there to die!