  Sleep on ye brave Canadians, In Langemarc’s blood-stained mead, Your glorious act will ever rank A truly golden deed, Sleep on with France and Briton And Belgian, side by side, Sleep ye and they your last long sleep, The last roll call to bide. And mother nature, gentlest nurse, Will ever nightly lave Your lowly grave with kindly dews While weeping willows wave; And kindly zephyrs every day, And every night will sigh, A sweet memoriam for aye, Your tomb to sanctify. And Belgian maids and matrons, too Will often leave the loom To gather wilding flowers, To beautify your tomb; And peasants when they pass your way, Oft to their sons will say: “’Twas here the brave Canadians The fierce Huns held at bay.” And when the Angel Gabriel, Shall sound the trumpet blast, Then you shall all awaken From your seeming death at last, And, standing at attention, While angel voices sing, In unison you will salute, The universal King. |
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