When on Euprhates' banks we sate,
Deploring Zion's dolefull state,
Our harps to which we lately sang,
Mute as ourselves, on willows hang.

Our sadness thus our spiler jeers:
" Change into mirth your sighs and tears,
And give us with your hands and tongues
One of your pleasant Hebrew songs."

Oh! how can we our airs compose
And sing of God amongst his foes!
When I forget his sacred hill,
May my right hand forget her skill!

When I shall thy remembrance leave,
My tongue to her dry roof shall cleave;
All other joys I shall contemn,
Calling to mind Jerusalem.