Page:Canadian poems of the great war.djvu/127

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Wilson MacDonald

And a mad company in lilting France
Unwind a rigadoon.
Down a soft English lane
Wild, happy, blue-eyed children chase the rain.
They wrap their throats in song from Maine to where
The Golden Gate unwinds her mist of hair.
One grief alone we have; blow, bugle, blow;
The crosses stand in Flanders, row on row.
They shall not watch with us tonight nor fare
On our bright bugle's blare.

Flow, flag, in the soft wind; blow, bugles, blow;
And then tonight, when all the lights are dim,
Let us pour out our thanks in praise to Him
Who gave the peace we know.

Toronto, November 7, 1918.

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