No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier’s fame
On the turf of a soldier’s grave.
Oh, gloomy, gloomy, is my FIRST
To all who step within!
But doubly gloomy to the one
Who dwells there for his sin.
Oh, silent, silent, are the tongues
No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier’s fame
On the turf of a soldier’s grave.
Oh, gloomy, gloomy, is my FIRST
To all who step within!
But doubly gloomy to the one
Who dwells there for his sin.
Oh, silent, silent, are the tongues