Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with those who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen crew.
On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.