When the thunder of the battle rolls no more,
And the last bugles blow o'er the plain,
They'll be many in old England mourning sore
For the men who must remain;
Yet when they think upon their glorious dead,
They shall know that their memory shall not fade, -
That sacred, where their dear ones fought and bled,
Is the ground where they are laid.

They need not know in bitter yearning long
For a spot their tear-dimmed eyes may never see,
Where unheeded and alone the weeds may throng
And the wild things wander free.
Tho' in a stranger land our soldiers sleep,
And far away is all they held so dear,
Yet kindred hands their glorious graves shall keep
Tended from year to year.

When, as the years bring round the time again,
Beneath their names our tribute wreaths we lay,
Who sleep full sound in some Southern plain
From their Isle far away,
Tho' they rest afar across the sundering foam,
'Neath a turf never wet with English showers,
We grieve not, since we know that, far from home,
Their graves are glad with flowers.