In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet 
There is a new-made grave to-day, 
Built by never a spade nor pick 
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick. 
There lie many fighting men, 
   Dead in their youthful prime, 
Never to laugh nor love again 
   Nor taste the Summertime. 
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 fought to free 
   And fled away. 
Now over the grave abrupt and clear 
   Three volleys ring; 
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear 
   The bugle sing: 
"Go to sleep! 
Go to sleep! 
Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. 
Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, 
You will not need them any more. 
Danger's past; 
Now at last, 
Go to sleep!" 

There is on earth no worthier grave 
To hold the bodies of the brave 
Than this place 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 air 
And touches the aureole on his hair 
As he sees them stand saluting there, 
   His stalwart sons; 
And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill 
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still 
   The Gael's blood runs. 
And up to Heaven's doorway floats, 
   From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, 
A delicate cloud of buglenotes 
   That softly say: 
"Farewell! 
Farewell! 
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!"