The Corps

The Salute

¹The Corps! Bareheaded salute it,

²With eyes up, thanking our God

³That we of the Corps are treading

⁴Where they of the Corps have trod.

⁵They are here in ghostly assemblage,

⁶The men of the Corps long dead,

⁷And our hearts are standing attention

⁸While we wait for their passing tread.

The Line

⁹We, sons of today, we salute you —

¹⁰You, sons of an earlier day;

¹¹We follow, close order, behind you,

¹²Where you have pointed the way.

¹³The long gray line of us stretches

¹⁴Thro' the years of a century told,

¹⁵And the last man feels to his marrow

¹⁶The grip of your far-off hold.

The Grip

¹⁷Grip hands with us now, though we see not,

¹⁸Grip hands with us, strengthen our hearts

¹⁹As the long line stiffens and straightens

²⁰With the thrill that your presence imparts.

²¹Grip hands — though it be from the shadows —

²²While we swear, as you did of yore,

²³Or living, or dying, to honor

²⁴The Corps, and the Corps, and the Corps!