As the war-woes over their gladness creep?
O this red! red! red!
O this blood I have shed
When from rifles of warriors I leap;
And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank,
But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank.
Siep! siep! siep!
The blood runs apace, and gone is the face
Of baby and wife,
Of love and of life