When the fields were full of buttercups
And the hedge with hawthorn gay
We passed a little wayside shrine
On a golden morn in May.

I turned to see the Christ who hung
On the cross as the men marched by
And I looked on one who was fair and young
Dear God! How young to die.

When the fields were full of buttercups
On a golden morn in May
To Arras and Amiens
The long line marched away.

I stand at the Cross with stammering tongue
And a heart that can only sigh
For the lads I knew who were lithe and young
Dear God! How young to die.