Oh, the drums are so mournful My dear, oh, my love As my thought's they are turning your way Where are the eyes I beheld with my own On that long ago lazy day? Dead are the leaves On the stark battlefield The stench of the flesh sickens me I slept soaking wet and the worms ate my bread And the moaning of men filled the air Oh, green are the leaves Of the old apple tree Those sweet perfumed blossoms of spring Entwined in your hair the smile in your eye A soft bled of grass for a ring Warm are the loaves That cool on the sill To the song of the clear, trickling stream The good, clean smell of the rough woven sheets The song of the children at play Oh, the drums are so mournful My dear, oh, my love As my thought's they are turning your way Where are the eyes I beheld with my own On that long ago lazy day? On that long ago lazy day?