Misty pines of dread-swept morn,
Sing no bird, nests to lorn.
Acres left bare, no crop to share,
Silence then, was born.
Blackened pitch of boots run dry,
Along this path our mothers cry.
Terrible fear, they must adhere,
Frightened so, to try.
Faded corners of earth unclaimed,
Yet be sundered by beasts untamed.
Father\'s loss, sacred cross,
Blessed be, much unnamed.
Vengeful ghosts of soldier\'s passed,
May the Maker deem you fast.
Sing no bird, sound no dird,
Tell them, \"Advance last.\"