When all was o'er and done
At the sinking of the sun,
And the last shots had sounded
Above the graves new-mounded,
Over the sunset plain
The bugles spoke again.

Singing of hope and glory,
And youth, and feet that roam,
And fields of fame and honour
More dear than fields of home, -
Of goodly deeds unguerdoned
And great fights fought in vain,
And tears that fall for heroes
And praises of the slain.

Tho' hopes be born to perish
And battles lost in vain,
Is there lot naught but sadness
Who weep the nobly slain?
O dead brows bound with laurel!
O harvest of the years!
Was ever crown of triumph
More glorious than such tears?

'Lights out!'
The plain is still:
The light dies lingering from the hill.
But yet by night and day
Over the world for aye
One lamp burns clear and high, -
Even the flame of fame, that shall not die.