Last Post:

When all was o'er and done At the sinking of the sun, And the last shots had sounded Above the graves new-mounded, Over the sunset plain The bugles spoke again. Singing of hope and glory, And youth, and feet that roam, And fields of fame and honour More dear than fields of home, - Of goodly deeds unguerdoned And great fights fought in vain, And tears that fall for heroes And praises of the slain. Tho' hopes be born to perish And battles lost in vain, Is there lot naught but sadness Who weep the nobly slain? O dead brows bound with laurel! O harvest of the years! Was ever crown of triumph More glorious than such tears? 'Lights out!' The plain is still: The light dies lingering from the hill. But yet by night and day Over the world for aye One lamp burns clear and high, - Even the flame of fame, that shall not die.