Watch into thee,
that bitter night,
where goodman go and turn,
hither where the yonder tree,
of death and gore be ware.

Thee hears them marching,
one by one,
into the shadowed field,
where blood has soaked the ground,
and untimely death appear.

"Tis a battlefield!" shouts thee,
into the dark, cold wind.
"No man hath cometh and gone alive,
with all his soul inside."

Death hath cometh to his door,
many, many a time.
At which hour his heart yearns for treason.
to help the fallen men.

And at which hour the marching drums appear,
from the other side,
the man knows that he should surely die,
if he had ever tried.

For treason is a haggard crime,
which all in death, result,
and then the man should surely mourn.
the death of angels near,
he cries to them with painful voice,
"Tis a battlefield!"