On a chilled day in November, near eleven in the morn,
I dream I see through frosty mists a Regiment reborn.
Their flag is dipped toward the ground by they who made it home,
They swell their ranks with ghosts, dead pals, the friends who sleep in loam.
The contrast is so striking, those who lived are bent and old,
While resurrected mates who march look youthful, brave and bold.
They are the reason we are free to seek our destinies
Yet we forget the price they paid, to bring the Nazi to his knees.

We’d raid Dieppe in little boats to break the Gerry’s fort
We could not beat the Germans, with no ships, no air support
Mountbatten sent us on our way:  that pretending royal snob
We were cut apart by Eighty-eights and mortar’s deadly lob, While
Lord Louie confessed it was his test to get Montgomery’s job.
It was not easy and often cruel how many stormed the breech,
From Dieppe’s shore, and on the Scheldt, and up the Juno beach
The Italian boot wore blood and soot from cannon, bomb and gun
At Ortona and Cassino they fought savagely and won

At home we think our dead are whole, with all their features strong,
The soldier’s ghosts who march today all know this myth is wrong.
When soldiers die it is not a thing of lying down to sleep.
They’re crudely struck a mortal wound that tears and rips too deep
It’s not just a neat and killing wound, it’s a man being torn to shreds,
When legs and arms go flying, leaving bodies with no heads,

Where once we saw Will smiling, his face is gone from view,
His image now can only live in the memories of the few
Will’s buddy Arch threw up his guts, vowed when that day was through.
“We all will march forever boys, so they’ll remember you.”

They will march forever, in ever thinning ranks, and
We’ll still owe our freedom’s debt to their bayonets and tanks
That purchased us our freedom at a price we can’t repay
And when they’re gone who’ll carry flags and wreaths this bleak, cold day
Who’ll blow the bugle, bang the drum and look back through the years.
To pay tribute to their memory with our silence and our tears
They lie still now where poppies blow where crosses mark the grave
Of our ne’er forgotten fighting men,
Who did more than just be brave.

When their last are laid to rest, the last post o’er them played
We can’t forget, we cannot let their deaths and courage fade.
The ghostly legion passes by, in khaki, and in blue
They look so young to be here now, and bear a spectral hue
They all appear as they were then, there’s Will, there’s Archie too,
These proud Canadian warriors,  those living and those gone.
The ghostly Regiment goes by, fades in the frosty dawn.
The dead revived, they came alive, to be remembered by the living
Seeing them all so clear, begets a tear, they served, supremely giving.