In solid platoons of steel,
Under heaven's triumphant arch,
The long lines break and wheel,
And the order is "Forward, March!"
The colors ripple o'erhead,
The drums roll up to the sky,
And with martial time and tread
The regiments all pass by--
The ranks of the faithful dead
Meeting their president's eye.
March on, your last brave mile!
Salute him, star and lace!
Form 'round him, rank and file,
And look on the kind, rough face.
But the quaint and homely smile
Has a glory and a grace
It has never known erstwhile,
Never in time or space.
Close 'round him, hearts of pride!
Press near him, side by side!
For he stands there not alone.
For the holy right he died,
And Christ, the crucified,
Waits to welcome his own.