Think of it, think of it over the water
Thousands of men to-day march on to death,
Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter—
How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.
How in the shadows, perchance, of this even,
Hundreds of hearts, will have paused in their beat,
Pale, ghastly brows, will be turned up to heaven—
Brows that were pressed by lips, tender and sweet.
Think of the homes that these battles are leaving
Destitute, desolate, dreary and dumb.
Think of the fond, patient, hearts that are grieving,
Breaking for loved ones, who never will come.
Ah! we so recently felt this same anguish,
Women—Oh! women who suffer and pray,
We well can weep with you, who weep and languish,
We have borne all you are bearing to-day.
"God speed the right," we cry, "God be with Prussia,"
Yet to the mourners of soldiers who fall,
Whether their tears flow in France, or in Russia,
Their dead are their dead, and we pity them all.
Think of it, think of it, hearts that are breaking,
Sorrowing, suffering, over the sea.
Think of the eyes that are blinded and aching
With watching for those whom they never will see.