LIKE mourners filing into church at a funeral, These droop their sombre heads and troop to the coast, The untimely rain makes mystery round them all And the wind flies round them like the ghost That the body on the blackened trestles lost. @3Miserere@1 sobs the weary Sky, sackclothed, stained, and dreary, And they bend their heads and sigh @3Miserere, Miserere!@1 With natural dole and lamentation They groan for the slaughter and desecration, But every moment adds to the cry Of that dead army driving by. |