Lest We Forget

In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

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Oh! You who sleep in Flanders Fields, 

Sleep sweet - to rise anew!

We caught the torch you threw

And holding high, we keep the Faith

With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red

That grows on fields where valour led; 

It seems to signal to the skies 

That blood of heroes never dies, 

But lends a lustre to the red

Of the flower that blooms above the dead

In Flanders Fields. 

And now the Torch and Poppy Red 

We wear in honour of our dead. 

Fear not that ye have died for naught; 

We'll teach the lesson that ye wroght 

In Flanders Fields.