“SALUT AUX BLESSIS”

A group of mounted officers

Ride up and fall in line;

Their gleaming swords hang at their sides,

Chevrons their arms entwine;

They bare their heads as pass along

A train of wounded men,

Their shattered comrades from the field

They ne'er may meet again.

“Salut aux Blessis!” loud they cry.

The wounded soldiers hear,

And for a time forget their pain,

And swell the lusty cheer.

Thus should it be in other lines;

The men who lead the van

Should e'er accord a brother's cheer

To every wounded man.

The “rank and file” the wounds receive;

Sometimes the leader, too;

But honest wounds none should despise;

The bearer may be true.

He stood his ground‘ gainst mighty odds,

And dared the shot and shell;

So bare your heads, ye scarless ones,

And say, “Thou hast done well!”