A thousand strong,
With laugh and song,
To charge the guns or line a trench,
We marched away
One August day,
And fought beside the gallant French.
A thousand strong,
But not for long;
Some lie entombed in Belgian clay;
Some torn by shell
Lie, where they fell,
Beneath the turf of La Bassée.
But yet at night,
When to the fight
Eager from camp and trench we throng,
Our comrades dead
March at our head,
And still we charge, a thousand strong!
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