The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost.
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosom of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?
III
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses