THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET[1]

(Dedicated to the memory of 19 members of Co. E., 165th Infantry, who made the supreme sacrifice at Rouge-Bouquet, Forest of Parroy, France, March 7; read by the chaplain at the funeral, the refrain echoing the music of Taps from a distant grove.)

In the woods they call Rouge-BouquetThere 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 againOr taste of the summer time;For death came flying through the airAnd stopped his flight at the dugout stair,Touched his prey—And left them there—Clay to clay.He hid their bodies stealthilyIn 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.)

In the woods they call Rouge-BouquetThere is a new-made grave today,Built by never a spade or pick,Yet covered by earth ten metres thick.

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 againOr taste of the summer time;

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 airAnd stopped his flight at the dugout stair,Touched his prey—And left them there—Clay to clay.He hid their bodies stealthilyIn the soil of the land they sought to free,And fled away.

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.)

Now over the grave, abrupt and clear,

Three volleys ring;

And perhaps their brave young spirits hear:

Go to sleep—

(Taps sounding in distance.)

There is on earth no worthier graveTo hold the bodies of the braveThan this spot of pain and prideWhere they nobly fought and nobly died.Never fear but in the skiesSaints and angels stand,Smiling with their holy eyesOn this new come band.St. Michael’s sword darts through the airAnd touches the aureole on his hair,As he sees them stand saluting thereHis stalwart sons;And Patrick, Bridget, and ColumbkillRejoice that in veins of warriors stillThe Gael’s blood runsAnd up to Heaven’s doorway floats,From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet,A delicate sound of bugle notesThat softly say:Farewell—Farewell—(Taps sounding in distance.)

There is on earth no worthier grave

To hold the bodies of the brave

Than this spot 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.

St. Michael’s sword darts through the airAnd touches the aureole on his hair,As he sees them stand saluting thereHis stalwart sons;And Patrick, Bridget, and ColumbkillRejoice that in veins of warriors stillThe Gael’s blood runs

St. 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, Bridget, and Columbkill

Rejoice that in veins of warriors still

The Gael’s blood runs

And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet,A delicate sound of bugle notesThat softly say:Farewell—Farewell—(Taps sounding in distance.)

And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,

From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet,

A delicate sound of bugle notes

That softly say:

Farewell—

(Taps sounding in distance.)

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!Joyce Kilmer, Sgt., Inf.Killed in action, July 30, 1918.

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!

Joyce Kilmer, Sgt., Inf.

Killed in action, July 30, 1918.

1.Copyright, 1918, Charles Scribner’s Sons.Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Co.

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