Do you hear the widows weeping, O my brothers,
Wedded but a few brief years?
They are writing home complaining to their mothers,
And their ink's suffused with tears.
The young lads are playing in the meadows,
The young babes are sleeping in the nest;
The young men are flirting in the shadows,
The young maids are helping them, with zest.
But the young golf widows, O my brothers,
Are weeping bitterly,