The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn where the poppies grew

Were redder stains than the poppies knew;

And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire;

And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line