Who of his hopes and love the whole
On his dear country has bestowed,
With all the ardour of his soul,
His highest aims, his mind, his blood.
'Twill pass, the battle and its blare;
'Twill sink, the endless crash of guns;
And, in their place, the burning prayer
Of mothers orphaned of their sons.
The meadows will be green again,
The corn will ripen on the plain.