In a lonely foreign field,
where poppies gently weep;
Many brave men, here were killed,
in Flanders, Somme and Ypres.
That they must fight, they questioned not;
It was their obligation.
So in these fields, their corpses rot,
protecting their home nation.
The blood of many soaked the earth;
No more to see their homeland;
To sit with sweethearts by the hearth
in sweet, eternal England.
Their bodies lie beneath the crust,
too mangled to be collected;
Churned by ages into dust.
On empty graves a cross erected.
