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108
OLIVE BUDS.
WAR.
War is a wicked thing,
It strews the earth with dead,
And leaves the trampled battle-field
With blood and carnage red,
While thousand mangled forms
In hopeless suffering bleed,
And vultures and hyenas throng
Upon their flesh to feed.
See with what bitter grief
Those widowed ones deplore ;
And children for their father mourn,
Who must return no more.
And aged parents sink
In penury and despair,
And sorrow dwells in many a home,—
War makes the weeping there.
