'Mid the Piteous Heaps of Dead

'MID the piteous heaps of dead

Goes one weary golden head

Tossing ever to and fro,

Calling loud and calling low.

Mother, mother, step so light,

Mother, lay your fingers white

On my forehead like a dew !

Mother, mother, where are you?

Still so loud he makes his cry

That the dying cannot die;

All the writhing field's one groan

While he lies and cries alone.

But his mother's far away;

Cannot hear him cry and say:

Mother, I am dying, come!

Mother, I am lost from home!

Mary, Mother of all men,

Come and comfort him in pain.

Take his young head to the breast

Where your Child and God had rest.

Mary, Mary, step so light.

Mary, lay your fingers white

On his forehead! He shall dream

That his mother comforts him.

Mary, Mother, croon him o'er

Lullabies you sang before!

Mary, ease him, crooning low,

In the way that mothers know!