I.

When the hollow drum has beat to bed,
When the little fifer hangs his head;
Still and mute
The Moorish flute,
And nodding guards watch wearily;
Then will we
From prison free,
March out by moonlight cheerily.

II.

When the Moorish cymbals clash by day,
When the brazen trumpets shrilly bray,
The slave in vain
May then complain
Of tyranny and knavery.
Would he know
His time to go
And slily slip from slavery.

III.

'Tis when the hollow drum has beat to bed,
When the little fifer hangs his head;
Still and mute
The Moorish flute,
And nodding guards watch wearily;
Oh, then must he
From prison free,
March out by moonlight cheerily!