For the drums are so mournful, my dear or my love as my thoughts they are turning to you. Where are the eyes I beheld with my own on that long ago lazy day. Dead are the deeds on the stark battlefield, the stench of defeat sickens me, I sleep soaking wet and the worms eat my bread, and the morning of men fills the air.

Oh green are the leaves on the old apple tree.
Those sweet perfume blossoms of spring, Entwined in your hair. The smile in your eye, a soft balde of grass for for a ring.

Warm are the loaves that cool on the sil,
to the song of the clear trickling stream,
the good clean smell of ruff woven sheets,
The song of childeren at play…

For the drums are so mournful, my dear or my love as my thoughts they are turning to you. Where are the eyes I beheld with my own on that long ago lazy day, on that long ago lazy day…