What stories could those old men tell?
Of war and pain running into hell?
I see those faces pinched and drawn
Parading down Whitehall on a November morn.

The silence is announced by a bugler’s blast
The crowd stands still and quiet at last
The old men have their own secret thoughts
Of comrades fallen and battles fought.

They probably wondered how they survived
When many of their friends died.
The living grow old and grey
Unlike their comrades who faded away

So when each day comes round
Remember those old men standing tall
Don’t forget their sacrifice for our cause
Their todays and tomorrows: the highest price of all