They sing a song that the pines of Maine
Hear in the winter's blast —
They sing a song that the riders hum,
Where the cattle plains spread vast;
But there is one they love the most —
And they keep it for the last.
They sing the lays of Puget Sound
Aglimmering in the sun —
Of the cotton fields of Alabam’,
Where the Gulf-bound rivers run,
But one they sing with a wistful look,
When all the rest are done.
They chant of the land of Dixie,
And their “Little Gray Home in the West” —
Of how they'll “can the Kaiser” —
And they roar with bellowing zest;
But one they sing as it were a prayer —
The song they love the best.
From Xivray to Cantigny —
From Soissons to the Meuse —
From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges
Agleam in the dawn's first hues —
They sing a sacred song, for it
Is red with battle-dews.
For it is sanctified by space —
And the cruel wheel of Time;
And sacrifice has hallowed it,
And mellowed every rhyme,
Until it wells from weary throats
A thing men call sublime.
In frozen trench and billet —
In mire, muck and rain —
Where the roar of unleashed batteries
Hurl forth their fires again;
At rest, or back in Blighty,
Torn with shell and pain —
There's a song they dub the fairest —
There's a lilt they love the best —
“There's a long, long trail awinding”
To the haven of their quest,
Where the tip of the rainbow reaches
A land in the golden west.