Sad is the music that comes to me.
Echoing—dying—
Sobbing—sighing—
Song of a race that would ever be free.
Death in the land—grim death in the battle—
Death—and worse death—for mother and maid.
Bravely we fought, but Fate did not favor—
Sons of Biloxi, ye were never afraid—
In caverns of corals our bones shall be laid.
Over the sea, the crooning sea