Sitting by the streams that glide
  Down by Babel's tow'ring wall,
With our tears we fill'd the tide,
  Whilst our mindful thoughts recall
  Thee, O Sion, and they fall.

Our neglected harps unstrung,
  Not acquainted with the hand
Of the skilful tuner, hung
  On the willow-trees that stand
  Planted in the neighbour land.

Yet the spiteful foe commands
  Songs of mirth, and bids us lay
To dumb harps our captive hands;
  And, to scoff our sorrow, say,
  "Sing us some sweet Hebrew lay!"

But say we, "Our holy strain
  Is too pure for heathen land;
Nor may we God's hymns profane,
  Or move either voice or hand
  To delight a savage band."

Holy Salem, if thy love
  Fall from my forgetful heart,
May the skill by which I move
  Strings of music tun'd by art,
  From my wither'd hand depart.