Not where the English turf grows green we laid them,Where their forefathers lie;O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made themArches an alien sky.
No chime of bells from old-time towers above them;No sound of English streams,Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them,Ever shall break their dreams.
What matters it? The earth that o'er them closesIts flowers as softly shedsAs English winds could bring the English rosesTo rain upon their heads.
And though an alien land their dust is keeping,Still in their hearts with prideThey say: "Though England may not guard our sleeping,Yet 'tis for her we died."
And with each wind across the waves that severThem from the land they knew,Shall blow this message through their hearts forever:"England remembers too."
Gregory fell beside the Marne,And John where flows the Aisne;But here to-night, ere midnight chime,We three shall meet again.
Though land and sea lie wide between,Their ghosts this way shall win,For, three true men, we made a bondTo watch the New Year in.
We made it on a Flanders fieldWhere white the shell-smoke ran;And who is Death to break the faithThat man has pledged to man?
Then draw their chairs beside the fireAnd brim their cups with wine;For ere the bells of midnight swingTheir hands shall clasp with mine.
Though Gregory lies where Marne runs down,And John beside the Aisne,Living and dead, ere midnight chime,We three shall meet again.
Ah, golden youths! who leave for evermoreYour ports of quiet breath,Turning your prows from Life's familiar shoreForth with adventurous Death.
With that great comrade sailing, side by side,To meet your warrior peers,Whose names have starred the roll of Erin's prideDown all the echoing years.
Your sunlit sails flash for a moment's space,Fade, waver and are gone;But, straining through the mists, our spirits traceA glory lingering on.
Farewell, great fellowship! Sail on, nor mournYour ports of quiet breath;Your prows with singing and with laughter turnForth with adventurous Death.
What is the news of England?The April breezes blow,Bringing to us faint odoursFrom lanes we used to know—Lanes, where the hawthorn hedgesFoam into blossoms white;What is the news of EnglandFor England's sons to-night?
What is the news of England?'Neath her white cliffs the seaCroons its soft song of summer,The golden days to be.Her hills are fair with promise,Her woods with voices ring,From every copse the cuckooShouts to the jocund Spring.
What is the news of England?Once more the cowslip gleamsGold in her misty meadows,Gold by her murmuring streams.Once more the April breezesBlow secrets of delightFrom the great heart of EnglandTo England's sons to-night.
We brought great ships to birth,We builded towns and towers—Lords of the sea and earth,Soon shall the sky be ours.
Soon shall our navies driftLike swallows down the wind,Shall wheel and swoop and lift,Leaving the clouds behind.
The stars our keels shall know,The eagle, as it flies,Shall scream to see us goSwift moving through the skies.
High o'er the mountain-steepOur wingèd fleets shall sail,The serried squadrons sweep,White-pinioned down the gale.
We are the lords of the land,We built us towns and towers,The sea has felt our hand—Soon shall the sky be ours.
Cheer if you will the brave deed done, with laurels the victor crown,But keep one leaf of your wreath of bay for the men who lost and aredown—For the fight in vain, for the cankered grain that in blood and tearswas sown.
Honour the strong of heart and hand, the sure of will and of sight,But what of the stumbling feet, the eyes that strain in vain for light?Is there no gain for the tears and pain of the men who fell in the fight?
Beaten—baffled—with standards lost—knowing no rallying cry,Struggling still, but with failing strength, while stronger menpass by:—Keep ye your bays; I give my praise to the men who lose and die.
The sunny streets of OxfordAre lying still and bare,No sound of voice or laughterRings through the golden air;And, chiming from her belfry,No longer Christchurch callsThe eager, boyish facesTo gather in her halls.
The colleges are empty,Only the sun and windMake merry in the placesThe lads have left behind.But, when the trooping shadowsHave put the day to flight,The Gentlemen of OxfordCome homing through the night.
From France they come, and Flanders,From Mons, and Marne and Aisne,From Greece and from GallipoliThey come to her again;From the North Sea's grey waters,From many a grave unknown,The Gentlemen of OxfordCome back to claim their own.
The dark is full of laughter,Boy laughter, glad and young,They tell the old-time stories,The old-time songs are sung;They linger in her cloisters,They throng her dewy meads,Till Isis hears their callingAnd laughs among her reeds.
But, when the east is whiteningTo greet the rising sun,And slowly, over Carfax,The stars fade, one by one,Then, when the dawn-wind whispersAlong the Isis shore,The Gentlemen of OxfordMust seek their graves once more.