In France there a lies a field untamed,
Once covered but now laid bare,
As a mark of respect,
For all the lost souls there.
It grows mournful wheat,
And stretches to the sky,
But never over dead grass,
Do birds now fly.
It sits alone at the base of a hill,
Where Jesus weeps and cries,
“No more blood shall ye spill,”
Though none meet his haunted eyes,
The world remembers and forgets our mate Tom,
But the earth remembers the field, the earth remembers the Somme.