OUR DEAD

Not where the English turf grows green we laid them,

Where their forefathers lie;

O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them

Arches an alien sky.

No chime of bells from old-time towers above them;

No sound of English streams,

Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them,

Ever shall break their dreams.

What matters it? The earth that o'er them closes

Its flowers as softly sheds

As English winds could bring the English roses

To rain upon their heads.

And though an alien land their dust is keeping,

Still in their hearts with pride

They say: “Though England may not guard our sleeping,

Yet‘ tis for her we died.”

And with each wind across the waves that sever

Them from the land they knew,

Shall blow this message through their hearts forever:

“England remembers too.”