On the road to Ypres, on the long road,
Marching strong,
We'll sing a song of Ypres, of her glory And her wrong.
Proud rose her towers in the old time,
Long ago.
Trees stood on her ramparts, and the water Lay below.
Shattered are the towers into potsherds-- Jumbled stones.
Underneath the ashes that were rafters Whiten bones.
Blood is in the cellar where the wine was,
On the floor.
Rats run on the pavement where the wives met At the door.
But in Ypres there's an army that is biding,
Seen of none.
You'd never hear their tramp nor see their shadow In the sun.
Thousands of the dead men there are waiting Through the night,
Waiting for a bugle in the cold dawn Blown for fight.
Listen when the bugle's calling Forward!
They'll be found,
Dead men, risen in battalions From underground,
Charging with us home, and through the foemen Driving fear Swifter than the madness in a madman,
As they hear Dead men ring the bells of Ypres For a sign,
Hear the bells and fear them in the Hunland Over Rhine!
