There is music in the midst of desolation,
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to teh battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with faces to the foe.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
We will remember them.
We will remember them. Lest we forget.