You do not sleep somewhere in France,
Of that brave land you are no part;
Nor Picardy nor Flanders' fields
Lovingly hold your tired heart.
Back here a quiet, wind-swept hill
Warmed by the sun, and laurel clad,
Is now your resting-place.…And still
You are no less the hero, lad!

You died at home.…No battle grim,
No crashing charge, no ringing cheers
Made easier your sacrifice,
To proudly echo down the years.
Yet was your going no less fine,
To your ideals you held so true,
Dear lad of theirs—dear lad of mine—
Let me—who had no son—claim you!