Come, brothers, let us sing a dirge, -
A dirge for myriad chances dead;
In grief your mournful accents merge:
Sing, sing the girls we might have wed! ...
He handed his life a poisoned draught,
With a scornful smile and a cold, cold glance,
And the merry bystanders loudly laughed
(For the rollicking world was gay!). ...
The mothers wish for no more daughters;
There is no future before them.
They bow their heads and their pride
At the end of the many tribes' journey. ...