Famine Song

And you need not deem me over cold,

That I do not stop to think

For all the pleasure this Life may hold

Is on the Precipice brink.

Thought could but lessen my soul's delight,

And to-day she may not pine.

For I shall lie in your arms to-night

And close your lips with mine!

I trust what sorrow the Fates may send

I may carry quietly through,

And pray for grace when I reach the end,

To die as a man should do.

To-day, at least, must be clear and bright,

Without a sorrowful sign,

Because I sleep in your arms to-night

And feel your lips on mine!

So on I work, in the blazing sun,

To bury what dead we may,

But glad, oh, glad, when the day is done

And the night falls round us grey.

Would those we covered away from sight

Had a rest as sweet as mine!

For I shall sleep in your arms to-night

And drink your lips like wine!