The bugler sent a call of high romance
Lights out! Lights out! to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,
God, if its this for me next time in France
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with the other broken ones
Lying so stiff and still under the sky,
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.
The Last Post
written byRobert Graves
© Robert Graves