[WAR]
Down by the village runs the stream
Once placid, now a raging flood:
Behold it, by the day's last gleam
Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood.
The Chapel bell has tolled its last;
The trees are bare, tho this be Spring:
Death's shroud is on the village cast,
And Ruin reigns o'er everything.
A grist of carnage clogs the Mill,