Sleep, comrades! Sleep and rest.
On this field of grounded arms,
Where foes no more molest,
Nor sentry's shot alarms.
Ye have slept on the ground before,
And started to your feet,
At the cannon's sudden roar,
Or the drum's redoubling beat.
All is repose and peace;
Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease -
It is the truce of God.
Your silent tents, tents of green,
We deck with flowers, with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.
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