O why do the children and women weep

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,