|Visit Us On FB
The dawn comes creeping o'er the plains, The saffron clouds are streaked with red, I hear the creaking limber chains, I see the drivers raise the reins And urge their weary mules ahead.
And men go up and men go down, The marching hosts are grand to see In shrapnel-shivered trench and town, In spinneys where the leaves of brown Are falling on the dewy lea.
Lonely and still the village lies,
The houses sleeping, the blinds all drawn.