Swept o’er our country’s head.
And we were captives many years,
Where Babel’s stream doth flow;
With harps unstrung, on willows hung,
We wept in silent woe.
We could not sing the old, sweet songs,
Our captors asked to hear;
Our hearts were full, how could we sing
The songs to us so dear?
As one who dreams a mournful dream,