Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done While our slumberous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Yet the lark’s shrill fife may comeĪt the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour’s clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, Dream of fighting fields no more Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. In our isle’s enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again They sit no more at familiar tables at home They have no lot in our labour of the day-time They sleep beyond England’s foam.īut where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night Īs the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain As the stars are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end they remain.Ĭhoose from our selection of funeral wreaths for soldiers At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. They were staunch to the end against odds uncountered: They fell with their faces to the foe. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. There is a music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea.
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