Where are you sleeping to-night, My Lad,
Above-ground—or below?
The last we heard you were up at the front,
Holding a trench and bearing the brunt;—
But—that was a week ago.

Ay!—that was a week ago, Dear Lad,
And a week is a long, long time,
When a second's enough, in the thick of the strife,
To sever the thread of the bravest life,
And end it in its prime.

Oh, a week is long when so little's enough
To send a man below.
It may be that while we named your name
The bullet sped and the quick end came,—
And the rest we shall never know.

But this we know, Dear Lad,—all's well
With the man who has done his best.
And whether he live, or whether he die,
He is sacred high in our memory;—
And to God we can leave the rest.

So—wherever you're sleeping to-night, Dear Lad,
This one thing we do know,—
When "Last Post" sounds, and He makes His rounds,
Not one of you all will be out of bounds,
Above ground or below.