OTHER, with your fond heart southward turning, And your face so full of anxious yearning,— By the sorrow in your deep eyes growing, Well I know where all your thoughts are going.
To the brave, bright boy, all danger scorning, Gone to battle in his youth's fresh morning,— For his country's bitter need, defying Pain and hardship, and the dread of dying.
Fair young girl, whose startled heart beats faster At the news of triumph or disaster,— Ah! the word you whisper softly over, Is the dear name of your valiant lover.
In the army where our banners hover, I have neither brother, son, nor lover: Round what camp-fire shall my thought be straying? Whom shall I remember in my praying?
O we lonesome ones, who linger over No dear name of brother, son, or lover,— Still our hearts ache, and our tear-drops fall Others pray for one—we pray for all!
OTHER, with your fond heart southward turning, 
OTHER, with your fond heart southward turning, 