Brave, reckless men who died,
Crept from their camp-fires back to bed
Along the wild hill-side.
But, comrades, ’neath the hills or waves,
Could one sad song of mine
Reveal dead souls of far-off graves,
’Twould be a song divine.
As pure and sweet as flowers that grow
Where once with wild delight
You sang, where bush-flowers, bursting, blow