Dust in a cloud, blinding weather, 
Drums that rattle and roar! 
A mother and daughter stood together 
By their cottage door.

'Mother, the heavens are bright like brass, 
The dust is shaken high, 
With labouring breath the soldiers pass, 
Their lips are cracked and dry.

'Mother, I'll throw them apples down, 
I'll fetch them cups of water.' 
The mother turned with an angry frown, 
Holding back her daughter.

'But, mother, see, they faint with thirst, 
They march away to war.' 
'Ay, daughter, these are not the first 
And there will come yet more.

'There is no water can supply them 
In western streams that flow; 
There is no fruit can satisfy them 
On orchard-trees that grow.

'Once in my youth I gave, poor fool, 
A soldier apples and water; 
And may I die before you cool 
Such drouth as his, my daughter.'