The battlements all are broken.
The castle walls are fell.
Once proud arms are bloody stumps,
lost in the battle's hell.
Our fallen comrades on funeral pyres,
we salute in sad farewell.
Wandering minstrels in future days,
our "glorious" tales will tell.
Victory, though sure, seems not so sweet,
when the price is a funeral bell,
rung for our friends of many a year,
-- cheap lives for kings to sell.
Yet tales of wartime glories
make many a young heart swell.
Each dreams of fighting battles,
-- their own brave tales to tell.
So long as those who've borne the cost,
keep silent and do not tell,
of horrors found, not glories there,
We'll pay with funeral bells.