A hundred yards from the trenches,
Close to the battle-front,
There stands a little house,
Lonely and desolate.

Not a man, not a bird, not a dog, not a cat,
Only a flight of crows along the railway line,
The sound of our boots on the muddy road
And, along the Yser, the twinkling fires.

A low thatched cottage
    With doors and shutters closed,
    The roof torn by a shell,
    Standing out of the floods alone ...

Not a cry, not a sound, not a life, not a mouse,
Only the stillness of the great graveyards,
Only the crosses - the crooked wooden crosses -
On the wide lonely plain.

A cottage showing grey
    Against a cold black sky,
Blind and deaf in the breeze
    Of the dying day,

And the sound of our footsteps slipping
On the stones as we go by ...

Suddenly, on the silent air,
Warm and clear, pure and sweet,
As sunshine on the golden moss,
Strong and tender, loud and clear,
    As a prayer,

Through the roof a girl's voice rang,
And the cottage sang!

Soprano solo
  When the spring comes round again,
  Willows red and tassels grey
  When the spring comes round again,
  Our cows will greet the day,
  They'll sound their horn triumphant,
  White sap and greening spear
  Sound it so loud and long,
  Until the dead once more shall hear.

  We shall hear our anvils,
  Strong arm and naked breast
  And in our peaceful meadows,
  The scythe will never rest.
  Ev'ry church will ope its door,
  Antwerp, Ypres and Nieuport,
  The bells will then be ringing,
  The foe's death knell be ringing.
  The shall sound spade and shovel,
  Dixmude and Ramscapelle
  And gaily gleam the trowel,
  While through the air the pick is swinging.

  From the ports our boats will glide.
  Anchor up and mooring slipt
  The lark on high will be soaring
  Above our rivers wide.
  And then our graves will flower,
  Heart'sease and golden rod
  And then our graves will flower
  Beneath the peace of God.

  Not a breath, not a sound, not a soul,
  Only the crosses, the crooked wooden crosses ...

  "Come, it is getting late
  'Tis but a peasant girl
  With her father living there . . . .

  They will not go away, nothing will make them yield,
  They will die, they say,
  Sooner than leave their field."

  Not a breath, not a life, not a soul,
  Only a flight of crows along the railway line,
  The sound of our boots on the muddy road ...
  And along the Yser the twinkling of the fires.