CXI
OUR DEAD Sye, do yer ’ear thet bugle callin’
Sutthink stringe through the city’s din?
Do yer shut yer eyes when the evenin’ ’s fallin’,
An’ see quite plain wheer they’re fallin’ in?
An’ theer ain’t no sarnd as they falls in,
An’ they mawch quick step with a silent tread
Through all ar ’earts, through all ar ’earts,
The Comp’ny of ar Dead.
A woman’s son, and a woman’s lover—
Yer’d think as nobody ’eld ’im dear,
As ’e stands, a clear mawk, art o’ cover,
An’ leads the rush when the end is near;
One more ridge and the end is near,
One more step an’ the bullet’s sped.
My God, but they’re well-officered,
The Comp’ny of ar Dead!
Never they’ll ’ear the crard a-cheerin’,
These ’ull never come beck agine;
Theer welkim ’ome is beyond our ’earin’,
But theer nimes is writ, an’ theer nimes remine,
An’ deep an’ lawstin’ theer nimes remine
Writ in theer blood for theer country shed;
An’ they stan’s up strite an’ they knows no shime,
The Comp’ny of ar Dead.
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