Blow soft you strong winds over the rich dead
let bugles sound sad mourning strains
as we step slow march to the
rrrrum, pum, pum
of the kilties’ lament
on their pipes,
on their drums.
The scarlet lines were long and straight
blue pill boxes wrapped in gold
slow-marched in solemn dignity
as the drum beat gently rolled.
Slowly, silently, somberly
the scarlet lines slipped by
a thousand grieving Officer Cadets
under the Kingston sky.
Under the thousand pill-box hats
ten thousand teardrops flowed
to honour their fallen brethren
and the church bells softly tolled.
Hogarth, Honciu, Murphy, Salek
to the sword
and the scarlet
lived in your heart,
in your passing
survives in the courage of blood.
your flag draped caskets
to the beat
of the drummers’
uplifted by comrades
where youth, and valour reside.
Through the arch,
the fire and the scarlet
through our deep troubled veins;
reigniting the steel of our passion
to honour your young lives remains.
doorway to past memory,
foundation and conception of our lives
the meaning of your words still remembered
Death is life’s only true prize.
Blow out you bugles over the rich dead
There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old
that dying has made us rarer gifts than gold