Vain echoes around, pale under the ground,
My boy will never come back.
Guns too! O why do they roar?
Alas, I thought it was o’er.
Though why care I, though a million die,
And all of us wear but black?
I, too, with the proud have my blood-stain’d shroud:
My boy will never come back.
Our land!—Who wants it to last!
Its future is doom’d by the past.