But the young, young children, Oh, my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the play-time of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his to-morrow, Which is lost in long ago; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost! But the young, young children, Oh, my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers In our happy fatherland? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy; "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary," "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary- Our grave-rest is very far to seek; Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old." "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time; Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen Like a snowball in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her; Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice, it is day.' If you listen by that grave in sun and shower With your ear down, little Alice never cries; Could we see her face, be sure we could not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes! And merry go her moments, lull'd and still'd in The shroud by the kirk chime. It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time. Alas! Alas! the children! They are seeking Death in life, as best to have; They are binding up their hearts away from breaking With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city; Sing out, children, as the thrushes do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! For oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we car'd for any meadows it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For all day we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark underground; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories round and round.