THE ROAD TO HIGH WOOD

It was on the road to High Wood That we found him lying dead, The soldier boy in khaki With the broken, battered head. No more at dawn or sunset Will he hear the bugle note, Nor thrill to taps ascending From a trumpet’s silver throat. It was on the road to High Wood Where the maple leaves were burned That the lad went out at morning And nevermore returned. There are many roads to High Wood, There are many roads to Hell, And the fields of wheat are rotten Where a thousand heroes fell.