And ne’er shall the rage of the conflict be o’er,
And ne’er shall the warm blood of life cease to flow,
And still ’mid the smoke of the battle shall roam
Our Eagle—till scattered and fled be the foe.
When Peace shall disarm War’s dark brow of its frown,
And roses shall bloom on the soldier’s rude grave—
Then Honour shall weave of the laurel a crown,
That Beauty shall bind on the brow of the brave.”—Percival.