There are hearts bowed down in the manse in our town,
As there are in the miners' cot,
For the brave sons who fell 'mid the shot and the shell,
Whose names shall ne'er be forgot
In the Old Grey Glen; they proved to be men,
When their lives so freely they gave;
On the scroll of fame we'll inscribe each name,
While they lie in the soldier's grave.
They hear not the battle, with cannons' loud rattle,
No sound can awake them to fight once again;
They have gone from this life with its bloodshed and strife,
Their numbers are found on the list of the slain.
Yet why should we weep, they have well earned their sleep,
Altho' to the glen they will never return;
They stood in the fight for God and the right,
Then why, oh why, should we mourn?
Then all bereaved ones should be proud of their sons
(And pride ought to smother each sigh and each tear),
As Britain to-day is proud of her stay,
When danger and death is near;
Oh! Great Power Divine, pray hasten the time
When all men shall know Thee and each knee shall bend;
Then Peace like a dove shall descend from above,
This terrible carnage to end.