1 With rustling wings the wild geese fly, Round fields long strange to hand of toil. Called by the officers in charge, We labour on the desert soil. Sad is our state, but sadder still The hearts no wedded love can fill.

2 The wild geese fly about, and light Amid the marsh, where grain once shone. We rear the walls as we are told;— Five thousand feet are quickly done. Great is the toil, and sore the pain, But peaceful homes will rise again.

3 The wild geese fly with plaintive note, That sadly suits our weary sighs. But those whose orders we obey,— They see our pain; and they are wise. If they had not been men of sense, They had rebuked our insolence.