Their white and their scarlet are folded away,
The hoofs of their horses are dumb on the hill;
In vain do we look for our comrades to-day,
Yet we know that in spirit they ride with us still.
Not the faintest low whimper that sounds in the thorn
But those keen ones will hear as they heard it of old ;
Not a far-away holloa or blast of the horn
But be loud to the men who lie under the mould.
Can they sleep, can they sleep when the wind hurries by
Through the woodlands of France with a rustle of leaves?
In the dark and the silence content can they lie
When the stubbles of Flanders are shorn of their sheaves?
Not the long leagues between, not the seas that divide,
Will prevent them from hearing the thunder of horse,
The 'Tally-ho back!' of a Whip in the ride,
Or the glad 'Gone away!' from the end of the
gorse.
As we cram our hats for the cream of the vale,
By the ghosts of old comrades the pace will be set,
And the brave ones who broke for us rasper and rail
Will be riding the grassland in front of us yet.
