My brothers, they all have gone   to fields of our mourning   Four years now, they crossed our door   their faces are ghosts here      Oh mother, weep not your sons   will soon be returning   Oh father, I'll wake at dawn   to follow, avenging      They fell on December snow   their bodies, unburied   I am youngest, still I must go   to reach and deliver      Oh mother, weep not your sons   will soon be returning   Oh father, I'll wake at dawn   to follow, avenging      I carry no iron, or gun   I need not such weapons   My brothers, I'll take you home   your souls will rest sweetly      Oh mother, weep not your sons   will soon be returning   Oh father, I'll wake at dawn   from fields of our mourning