My brothers, they all have gonento fields of our mourningnFour years now, they crossed our doorntheir faces are ghosts herennOh mother, weep not your sonsnwill soon be returningnOh father, I'll wake at dawnnto follow, avengingnnThey fell on December snowntheir bodies, unburiednI am youngest, still I must gonto reach and delivernnOh mother, weep not your sonsnwill soon be returningnOh father, I'll wake at dawnnto follow, avengingnnI carry no iron, or gunnI need not such weaponsnMy brothers, I'll take you homenyour souls will rest sweetlynnOh mother, weep not your sonsnwill soon be returningnOh father, I'll wake at dawnnfrom fields of our mourning