Oh, the drums are so mournful
My dear, oh, my love
As my thought's they are turning your way
Where are the eyes I beheld with my own
On that long ago lazy day?

Dead are the leaves
On the stark battlefield
The stench of the flesh sickens me
I slept soaking wet and the worms ate my bread
And the moaning of men filled the air

Oh, green are the leaves
Of the old apple tree
Those sweet perfumed blossoms of spring
Entwined in your hair the smile in your eye
A soft bled of grass for a ring

Warm are the loaves
That cool on the sill
To the song of the clear, trickling stream
The good, clean smell of the rough woven sheets
The song of the children at play

Oh, the drums are so mournful
My dear, oh, my love
As my thought's they are turning your way
Where are the eyes I beheld with my own
On that long ago lazy day?
On that long ago lazy day?