In silent Craters they fell Generations dead and wasted Fathers, uncles, brothers, sons Scattered on Flanders fields. Forgetting plough and factory Willingly they marched to fall Never questioning one command Shouted on Flanders fields. Honest pilgrims every one In Gods defense they carried arms Advancing forward murmuring prayers Across the Flanders fields. Quietly walked into the hail That splintered flesh and bone Erasing rows with scything fire Above the Flanders fields. Two centuries of British dead From Passchendaele to Waterloo Fingers point across the sea Away from Flanders fields.