Music composed by Country Joe McDonald from the poem by Robert William Service.
We watched the troops returning through our tears
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street
scarce could hear the music for the cheers
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between
The bells were pealing madly to the sky
And everyone was shouting for the soldiers of the Queen
And the glory of an age was passing by
And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer
We waited, and we never spoke a word
The sky grew darker, darker, ’til from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread
Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black
They’re coming, it’s the Army of the Dead
They’re coming, it’s the Army of the Dead
They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe
And clotted holes the khaki couldn’t hide
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish, the livid, foam-flecked lips
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips
Oh, the dreary rhythm of their song
They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn’t stop
On this, our England’s crowning festal day
We’re the men of Magersfontein, we’re the men of Spion Kop
Colenso, we’re the men who had to pay
We’re the men who paid the blood-price
Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us, long and heavy is the score
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain
And cheer us as you’ve never cheered before
And cheer us as you’ve never cheered before
The folks were white and stricken, each tongue seemed weighed with lead
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead
The pity of the men who paid the price
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam
They were coming in their thousands, oh, would they never cease
I closed my eyes and then it was a dream
I closed my eyes and then it was a dream
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street
The town was mad a man was like a boy
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet
A thousand bells were thundering the joy
There was music, mirth and sunshine, but some eyes shone with regret
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves
Oh God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves
Robert William Service was born in 1874 in Lanchashire, England. He spent long periods of his youth traveling in the Western U.S. and Canada in the Yukon. He began writing poetry and verse when he was six year old. He wrote The March of the Dead in 1900 at the age of 26. It was about the Boer War. His brother, Alik was a prisoner of the Boers at the time having been captured along with Winston Churchill. The poem was later published in 1907 in The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses. He died in 1958 after traveling extensively and writing prolifically.
