[The writer of these
striking lines is a girl of fifteen, who has recently lost her father and
brother at the front.]
Bugle, wind out they solemn
note of warning,
Salute the glorious dead,
returned to clay and dust.
Bells, echo back the woeful
sound of mourning,
Wail the last requiem on the
wintry gust.
Wind, waft the story of their
gallant fight
Back to the land they’ll never
visit more
And in the gentle stillness of
the night
Comfort the stricken hearts
who wait upon the shore.
Rain, wash away the
bloodstains from the brave,
Sink thru the soil, and make
it fresh and sweet.
Sun, let thy beams chase
shadows from their grave.
Guide them to heaven, their
just reward to meet.
Flowers, sow thy seeds amid
the blades of grass,
Bear on the breeze the herald
scent of spring;
Moon, strive thine earlier
beauty to surpass;
Birds, cheer their last long
rest with your glad caroling.
Earth, receive them in thy
last embrace,
For all thy children must
return to thee.
They are the noblest of our
island race;
In thy protecting arms their
rest must be!
God, Who didst make them,
bring them to their home,
Where no grim battle mars Thy
perfect peace.
Grant them for ever in that
peace to roam,
Where from all turmoil they
may find release.
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