'MID the piteous heaps of dead br Goes one weary golden head br Tossing ever to and fro, br Calling loud and calling low. br br br Mother, mother, step so light, br Mother, lay your fingers white br On my forehead like a dew ! br Mother, mother, where are you? br br br Still so loud he makes his cry br That the dying cannot die; br All the writhing field's one groan br While he lies and cries alone. br br br But his mother's far away; br Cannot hear him cry and say: br Mother, I am dying, come! br Mother, I am lost from home! br br br Mary, Mother of all men, br Come and comfort him in pain. br Take his young head to the breast br Where your Child and God had rest. br br br Mary, Mary, step so light. br Mary, lay your fingers white br On his forehead! He shall dream br That his mother comforts him.