Death was everywhere In the air and in the sounds Coming off the mounds of Bolton's Ridge Ooh, death's anchorage When you rolled a smoke or told a joke
Louis was my dearest friend Fighting in the ANZAC trench Louis ran forth from the line I never saw him again Later in the dark I thought I heard Louis
Bitter branches spreading out There's none more bitter than the wood Into the wide world it grows Twisting under soldiers' feet Standing in line and
I live and die through England Through England It leaves a sadness Remedies never were within my reach I cannot go on as I am Withered vine reaching
Walker sees the mist rise Over no man's land He sees in front of him A smashed up waste ground There are no fields or trees No blades of grass Just unhurried
We got up early, washed our faces Walked the fields and put up crosses Passed through the damned mountains Went hellwards and some of us returned And
The west's asleep, let England shake Weighted down with silent dead I fear our blood won't rise again Won't rise again England's dancing days are done
Goddamn Europeans Take me back to beautiful England And the gray, damp filthiness Of ages and battered books And fog rolling down behind the mountains
is our glorious land bestowed? How is our glorious land bestowed? Oh America, oh England Oh America, oh England Oh America, oh England Oh America, oh England
People throwing dinars at the belly-dancers In a sad circus by a trench of burning oil People throw belongings, a lifetime's earnings Amongst the scattered
I've seen and done things I want to forget I've seen soldiers fall like lumps of meat Blown and shot out beyond belief Arms and legs were in the trees
The scent of Thyme carried on the wind Stings my face into remembering Cruel nature has won again Cruel nature has won again On Battleship Hills caved
The West's asleep. Let England shake, weighted down with silent dead. I fear our blood won't rise again. England's dancing days are done. Another day
I live and die through England Through England It leaves a sadness Remedies never were within my reach I cannot go on as I am Withered vine reaching from
: The West's asleep. Let England shake, weighted down with silent dead. I fear our blood won't rise again. England's dancing days are done. Another
: Goddamn' Europeans! Take me back to beautiful England & the grey, damp filthiness of ages, fog rolling down behind the mountains, & on the graveyards
