The Fields Of Flanders

Last year the fields were all glad and

With silver daisies and silver may;

There were kingcups gold by the river's

And primrose stars under every hedge.

This year the fields are trampled and brown,

The hedges are broken and beaten down,

And where the primroses used to

Are little black crosses set in a row.

And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams,

The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes,

The tree of life with its fruit and bud,

Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.

The changing seasons will bring

The magic of Spring to our wood and plain;

Though the Spring be so green as never was

The crosses will still be black in the green.

The God of battles shall judge the

Who trampled our country and laid her low. . . .

God!  hold our hands on the reckoning day,

Lest all we owe them we should

Written in response to 'Flanders Field' by John

Crae