Full of grief, the low winds sweep o'er the sorrow-haunted ground; dark the woods where night rains weep, dark the hills that watch around. Tell me, can the joys of spring ever make this sadness flee, make the woods with music ring, and the streamlet laugh for glee? Sad shall it be, though sun be shed golden bright on field and flood; e'en the healther's crimson red holds the memory of blood. Noble dead that sleeps below, we your valour ne'er forget; soft the heroes' rest who know hearts like theirs are beating yet.🏁

Full of grief, the low winds sweep o'er the sorrow-haunted ground; dark the woods where night rains weep, dark the hills that watch around. Tell me, can the joys of spring ever make this sadness flee, make the woods with music ring, and the streamlet laugh for glee? Sad shall it be, though sun be shed golden bright on field and flood; e'en the healther's crimson red holds the memory of blood. Noble dead that sleeps below, we your valour ne'er forget; soft the heroes' rest who know hearts like theirs are beating yet.🏁