Dickey, we've trained and fit and died,
Yes, drilled and drunk and bled,
And shared our chuck and our bunks in life.
Why part us now we're dead?
Would I rot so nice away from you,
Who has been my pal for a year?
Will Gabriel's trumpet waken me,
If you ain't there to hear?
Will a parcel of bones in a wooden box
Remind my Ma of me?
Or isn't it better for her to think
Of the kid I used to be?
It's true some preacher will get much class
A tellin' what guys we've been,
So, the fact that we're not sleeping with pals,
Won't cut no ice for him.
They'll yell, 'Hurrah!'
And every spring they'll decorate our tomb,
But we'll be absent at the spot
We sought, and found, our doom.
The flags and flowers won't bother us,
Our free souls will be far --
Holdin' the line in sunny France
Where we died to win the war.
Fact is, we need no flowers and flags
For each peasant will tell his son,
'Them graves on the hill is the graves of
Yanks, Who died to lick the Hun.'
And instead of comin' every spring
To squeeze a languid tear,
A friendly people's loving care
Will guard us all the year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem