| |
| IN a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet | |
| There is a new-made grave to-day, | |
| Built by never a spade nor pick | |
| Yet covered with earth ten metres thick. | |
| There lie many fighting men, | 5 |
| Dead in their youthful prime, | |
| Never to laugh nor love again | |
| Nor taste the Summertime. | |
| For Death came flying through the air | |
| And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, | 10 |
| Touched his prey and left them there, | |
| Clay to clay. | |
| He hid their bodies stealthily | |
| In the soil of the land they fought to free | |
| And fled away. | 15 |
| Now over the grave abrupt and clear | |
| Three volleys ring; | |
| And perhaps their brave young spirits hear | |
| The bugle sing: | |
| “Go to sleep! | 20 |
| Go to sleep! | |
| Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. | |
| Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, | |
| You will not need them any more. | |
| Danger’s past; | 25 |
| Now at last, | |
| Go to sleep!” | |
| |
| There is on earth no worthier grave | |
| To hold the bodies of the brave | |
| Than this place of pain and pride | 30 |
| Where they nobly fought and nobly died. | |
| Never fear but in the skies | |
| Saints and angels stand | |
| Smiling with their holy eyes | |
| On this new-come band. | 35 |
| St. Michael’s sword darts through the air | |
| And touches the aureole on his hair | |
| As he sees them stand saluting there, | |
| His stalwart sons; | |
| And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill | 40 |
| Rejoice that in veins of warriors still | |
| The Gael’s blood runs. | |
| And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, | |
| From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, | |
| A delicate cloud of buglenotes | 45 |
| That softly say: | |
| “Farewell! | |
| Farewell! | |
| Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! | |
| Your souls shall be where the heroes are | 50 |
| And your memory shine like the morning-star. | |
| Brave and dear, | |
| Shield us here. | |
| Farewell!” | |
| |
