Where are they now our kinsmen son?
Why is the air so still?
Will they ever again come marching,
over the far, far hill?
Yonder they went in the morning
full of life, of youth, of pride.
If I were only a little younger
I would have been at their side.
But my feet are too old for marching,
and my eyes have grown too dim,
yet though I must stay in the village
I have sent my soul with them.
Hush now and listen
what is that I hear,
wailing away in the distance,
very low yet very clear,
can it be the pipers
returning home from war,
or is it but the bitter wind
as it blows forever more?