Those were the high days, the jolly days of yore,
the dim and distant past that will come again no more.
With our sweethearts and companions we would while away the hours,
laughing, sleeping, teasing ‘neath the woodlands florid bowers.
Sometimes we’d take to singing or climb the highest trees,
but often lying quiet we would simply take our ease.
Perhaps we’d roam through cornfields or paddle in the brooks,
laughing and romancing ,exchanging tender looks.
We’d often stay out very late and wear away the night
with talk of all our hopes and dreams until the dawn’s first light,
then off to try and catch some sleep ‘fore church on Sunday morn,
to the little village church which now stands so forlorn.
The bells would ring  to summon us ‘oer the county wide
oh come to church good people come, there’s room enough inside!
We’d fill up all the choir stalls, our voices strong and clear,
Sunday after Sunday for many a happy year.
It seemed that things would never change,
(they’d stay just as before), but then we heard the bugle call
And went  to join the war.
Leaving sweethearts far behind and families and homes,
we went across to France to die in friendless foreign zones.
The old church bells are silent now the steeple fallen down,
no more their cheerful ringing will peal the county round.
Those trusty souls I knew so well, are silent now just like the bell,
their broken bodies buried deep, far away in France’s keep.
In ranks they take eternal rest, of English youth, the very best!
Some comrades lie ‘neath poppy’s tall, while I alone am left of all
Those smiling lads from dale and hill, the farm, the village shop and mill,
I missed them then, I miss them still…