Cry Of The Children, The

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers---

And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

The young birds are chirping in the nest;

The young fawns are playing with the shadows;

The young flowers are blowing toward the west---

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

They are weeping bitterly!---

They are weeping in the playtime of the others

In the country of the free.

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