Will melt, and e’en a soldier’s eye
Weep tears of bitter agony.
He ceased, and scarcely had the winds his accents borne away,
Than spoke out a young mother, on whose breast an infant lay;
Her very voice was melody, and she sung her boy to sleep
In tones whose earnest accent moved the listener to weep.
My boy! my boy! thy father
Is gone to the spirit-land,
Where the pale-face cannot come,
To dwell with the kindred band