Post by Administrator on Nov 6, 2020 18:40:06 GMT
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There's a haunting strain of music,
Gently wafting on the breeze,
Flowing softly cross the schoolyard,
Gently stirring springtime leaves.
It's an eerie tune, that melody,
But a knowing schoolboy said,
It's the tune the British bugler sounds,
When calling back the dead.
And there some gray-haired soldiers stand,
The notes paused, then passed them by,
And ambled down a country lane,
To a field where comrades lie.
And in that field where poppies bloom,
The tune echoes from each stone,
As it gently rises skyward,
Calling Britain's soldiers home.
And there some gray-haired soldiers stare,
Across the field, too moved to speak,
For the haunting tune has touched their soul,
And placed a tear upon their cheek.
Ah! yes it is an eerie tune,
But a knowing schoolboy said,
It's the tune the British bugler sounds,
When calling back their dead.
Ian Adrian Millar
For Great Uncle George, The Royal Warwickshire Regiment 1914-18
There's a haunting strain of music,
Gently wafting on the breeze,
Flowing softly cross the schoolyard,
Gently stirring springtime leaves.
It's an eerie tune, that melody,
But a knowing schoolboy said,
It's the tune the British bugler sounds,
When calling back the dead.
And there some gray-haired soldiers stand,
The notes paused, then passed them by,
And ambled down a country lane,
To a field where comrades lie.
And in that field where poppies bloom,
The tune echoes from each stone,
As it gently rises skyward,
Calling Britain's soldiers home.
And there some gray-haired soldiers stare,
Across the field, too moved to speak,
For the haunting tune has touched their soul,
And placed a tear upon their cheek.
Ah! yes it is an eerie tune,
But a knowing schoolboy said,
It's the tune the British bugler sounds,
When calling back their dead.
Ian Adrian Millar
For Great Uncle George, The Royal Warwickshire Regiment 1914-18