MARCH not so slowly, you compassionate soldiers,
With guns slanting to earth;
Pass quickly, fifes and drums,
Nor mock with deliberate stride
The eager wings of death,
The querulous pace of the living.
Hurry, O' hurry, you, hurry him away,
This captain who was once an ironmonger,
Into that dreadful grave.
Cease, deep bell;
Horror has fall’n upon him like a bolt,
And all the ardours that encompassed him
Are faint with those wreaths, those wreaths.
Pass quickly, desolate drums, reluctant fifes,
Stabbing with practised melancholy
The bright uncomprehending world.
Sad soldiers, with your grave-denoting guns.
Pass on, pass on.
