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|  | Rouge Bouquet « Thread Started on Nov 23, 2005, 1:51pm » | |
By Joyce Kilmer
In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet There is a new-made grave today Built by never a spade nor pick Yet covered with earth ten meters thick
There lie many fighting men 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 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 Now over the grave abrupt and clear three volleys ring And perhaps their brave young spirits hear the bugle sing
Go to sleep! 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, 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 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
Saint 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, rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael's blood runs
And up to Heaven's doorway floats Fom the wood called Rouge Bouquet A delicate cloud of bugle-notes That softly say, Farewell! Farewell!
Comrades true, born anew, peace to you Your souls shall be where the heroes are And your memory shine like the morning star Brave and dear, shield us here, Farewell!
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