And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain—it lay still
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill;
They call'd for the harp—but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of their skill.
All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be.
Our hands may be fettered—our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory—and Sion!—Oh thee.