But why; why do the children cry,
As the husband true bids a brave good-by?
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!