I
In the woods they call Rouge-Bouquet
There is a new-made grave today,
Built by never a spade or pick,
Yet covered by earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh or live again
Or taste of the summer time;
For death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey—
And left them there—
Clay to clay.
He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they sought to free,
And fled away.
Now over the grave, abrupt and clear,
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear:
Go to sleep—
Go to sleep—
(Taps sounding in distance.)