In Flando's fields the puppies blow, between the crosses roll on and roll. At Markard Place and in the sky, the luck still bravely singing fly. Guess who are the mid, the guns below. We are the dead short days ago. We lived, felt on, saw sunset glow. Loved and were loved, the new we lie, in Flando's fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe, to you from failing hands we throw. And torch be yours to hold it high. And if you break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, but puppies grow. In Flando's fields.