II

‘ Tis passing wonderful that they,

The little boys of yesterday,

Who cuddled to dear Mother-hearts

With darling rosy-fingered arts,

Did cheer with strong expectancy

The shattering artillery;

And smilingly went o'er the top

Unflinchingly without a stop

Into the poppied “No Man's Land.”

Wave after wave, band after band,

Through the terror of bursting shells,

Through the noise of a thousand hells,

Through th’ unmanning groans of pain,

Through the blood of the splendid slain

Lying under a blue-cupped sky,

As wave after wave swept bravely by.

From flowers of blue to the Endless Blue

Hundreds of souls are passing thro’,

And the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives:

O! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives.