Oh, we've been, yes, we've been in a bright world before,

Where we liv'd with our Father and Mother of yore;

And they nurs'd us as those that were tender and fair,

And wreath'd with fresh flow'rets our beautiful hair.

. . .

So our garments are chang'd and our glory hath fled,

And the sackcloth is ours and dust on our head;

And our Father and Mother are hidden on high,

And the storm-clouds are black in the wint'ry sky.