Barring the coast to the last?

Where are our laddies who died out there,

From Poelcapelle to Festubert,

When the days grew short and the poplars bare

In the cold November blast?

For us their toil and for us their pain,

The sordid ditch in the sodden plain,

The Flemish fog and the driving rain,

The cold that cramped and froze;

The weary night, the chill bleak day,