1 When we our wary limbs to rest,
Sat down by proud Euphrates' stream,
We wept, with doleful thoughts opprest,
And Sion was our mournful theme.

2 Our harps, that, when with joy we sung,
Were wont their tuneful parts to bear,
With silent strings neglected hung
On willow trees, that withere'd there.

3 Mean while our foes, who all conspir'd
To triumph in our slavish wrongs,
Music and mirth os us requir'd,
"Come, sing us one of Sion's songs."

4 How shall we tune our voice to sing?
Or touch our harps with skilful hands?
Shall hymns of joy to God, our King,
Be sung by slaves in foreign lands?

5 O Salem, our once happy seat!
When I of thee forgetful prove,
Let then my trembling hand forget
The speaking strings with art to move!

6 If I to mention thee forbear,
Eternal silence seize my tongue;
Or is I sing one cheerful air,
Till thy deilv'rance is my song!