Page:Ballads of battle (IA balladsofbattle00leejiala).pdf/56

Here, where the ruined chapels raise
Their blackened beams against the blue,
Comes echo of the hymn of praise
Sung by our home-folk, leal and true.

Here, by the stile, where lovers stood,
And strong hands laboured with the sheaves,
Where are dear drops of human blood
As crimson as the poppy leaves;

Here, where the ripened harvests rot—
Where rot an hundred ungraved men,
Bethink ye we remember not
The little Croft beneath the Ben?
Bethink ye we have aught forgot?
Bethink ye we remember not?