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 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.