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| THE GUNS are hushed. On every field once flowing | |
| With wars red flood May’s breath of peace is shed, | |
| And, spring’s young grass and gracious flowers are growing | |
| Above the dead. | |
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| Ye gray old men whom we this day are greeting, | 5 |
| Honor to you, honor and love and trust! | |
| Brave to the brave! Your soldier hands are meeting | |
| Across their dust. | |
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| Bravely they fought who charged when flags were flying | |
| In cannon’s crash, in screech and scream of shell; | 10 |
| Bravely they fell, who lay alone and dying | |
| In battle’s hell. | |
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| Honor to them! Far graves to-day are flinging | |
| Up through the soil peace blooms to meet the sun, | |
| And daisied heads to summer winds are singing | 15 |
| Their long “well done.” | |
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| Our vanguard, they. They went with hot blood flushing | |
| At battle’s din, at joy of bugle’s call. | |
| They fell with smiles, the flood of young life gushing, | |
| Full brave the fall! | 20 |
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| But braver ye who, when the war was ended, | |
| And bugle’s call and wave of flag were done, | |
| Could come back home, so long left undefended. | |
| Your cause unwon, | |
| And twist the useless sword to hook of reaping, | 25 |
| Rebuild the homes, set back the empty chair | |
| And brave a land where waste and want were keeping | |
| Guard everywhere. | |
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| All this you did, your courage strong upon you, | |
| And out of ashes, wreck, a new land ’rose, | 30 |
| Through years of war no braver battle won you, | |
| ’Gainst fiercer foes. | |
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| And now to-day a prospered land is cheering | |
| And lifting up her voice in lusty pride | |
| For you gray men, who fought and wrought, not fearing | 35 |
| Battle’s red tide. | |
| Our rear guard, ye whose step is slowing, slowing, | |
| Whose ranks, earth thinned, are filling otherwhere, | |
| Who wore the gray—the gray, alas! still showing | |
| On bleaching hair. | 40 |
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| For forty years you’ve watched this land grow stronger, | |
| For forty years you’ve been its bulwark, stay; | |
| Tarry awhile; pause yet a little longer | |
| Upon the way. | |
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| And set our feet where there may be no turning, | 45 |
| And set our faces straight on duty’s track, | |
| Where there may be for stray, strange goods no yearning | |
| Nor looking back. | |
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| And when for you the last tattoo has sounded, | |
| And on death’s silent field you’ve pitched your tent, | 50 |
| When, bowed through tears, the arc of life has rounded | |
| To full content, | |
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| We that are left will count it guerdon royal, | |
| Our heritage no years can take away, | |
| That we were born of those, unflinching, loyal, | 55 |
| Who wore the gray. | |
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