Away from the head of the Wanlock Glen,
Where nurtured you were to the status of men,
You marched when the heather was shedding its bloom,
With the war song of freedom, your spirits in tune.
The surge of true manhood carried you on
To the thick of the fight in the fire-swept zone,
Through the fume of the gas shell's deadly breath,
Through blood and mire, on to glory or death.
To you, still part of Britannia's shield,
Back with victory crowned from the dark stricken field,
Along with the broken, the maimed, and the dead,
We owe an account that can never be paid.
Shades of the dead! Now with war drums still
We hear in the wind of the moor and the hill
Your voices, that tell in triumphant song,
All is well with you there, in your Father's home.