Not the Old Hundred.
Anonymous.
THE BITER BIT
THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair;
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!
They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bell
It booms along the upland—Oh! it haunts me like a knell;