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2 They bring the best of heart and hand, Of blood, and breed, and birth; Their graves upon our frontiers lie, To testify their worth.

They hasten to their heritage, The feeble and the fain; They bring the best of youth and hope, To garner age and pain, To glean the dole of little thanks, To suffer and be dumb; To die when duty names the man— And still their cohorts come.

Perceval Gibbon.