There's no more a sound of our battle song,
Nor a ring of hoofs of our horses,
Bullets made the holes the mess-kit along,
The young sulteress's, too, midst our losses.
We are left not many - we and our sore -
Few our solders and few ones of foes,
We're alive till now - baggers of the war,
Killed, we'll go by the Eden's roads.