The years were long,

Many would sing a sad song,

Many would never return home,

In far off lands they would roam,

Many wearily marched a league,

Many ending in the bloody siege,

Cannon flash, roar, and thunder,

Tearing peace so longed for and dear asunder,

Years drag on and go slowly by,

Whilst in many a foreign field the dead doth lie,

“Where is your regiment?” an officer asks,

“Dead in the field, result of the bloody tasks”,

Popping of muskets, yells and screams,

Long into years to come they haunt survivor’s dreams,

In battle and of disease soldiers die,

Yet regardless it is in the mass graves they now lie,

Many a boy with no knowledge of life,

But Death and the best uses of bayonet and knife,

Many never know the pleasure of a woman’s sweet embrace,

Those that do never forget the time or place,

Smiles shared in quiet hours,

Far from Hell and Death’s infernal powers.

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