Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are learning 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 shadows; The young flowers are blowing towards 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.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,
why their tears are falling so ?---
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
which is lost in Long Ago ---
The old tree is leafless in the forest ---
The old years is ending in the frost ---
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest ---
The old hope is hardest to be lost;
But the young,
young children,
O' my brothers,
do you ask them why they stand
weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy world of to-day...