Are tossed in the wind’s rude breath;
His frail form shakes as the whistling gusts
Sweep o’er the field of death.
With straining eyes, hearts beating fast,
They seek to gaze ahead
To where they left their little home
When from the Hun they fled.
’Neath the heights of a hill o’erlooking the vale,
Half hid in a purple shade,
The dim outline of the town comes to view,