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

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.