We present this work in honor of the 95th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Unscathed as yet by battle-scars,
Trampling the sad December’s snow,
The Khaki lads on Champ de Mars
Are girding for the distant foe.
East with a dream comes marching by;
Each all aflame for England’s fight.
But O presaging heart, say why
That sound of weeping in the night?

The Duke came down one frosty day
And walked between the khaki ranks.
Full grave his look. We heard him say:
“Soldiers, the Empire gives you thanks.
Love live the King! Our foes shall learn
You stand with Him for simple right;
And may God grant you safe return.”
But still that sound all through the night!

O, marching from the Camp de Mars
They cross the seas; they storm the trench,
Fighting beneath the troubled stars
With Belgians brave and valiant French;
Fighting, till victory austere,
Shall crush the Great Betrayer’s might.
But O my beating heart, dost hear

That sound of weeping in the night?