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- NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
- As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
- Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
- O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
- We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
- The sods with our bayonets turning,
- By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
- And he lantern dimly burning.
- No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
- Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
- But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
- With his martial cloak around him.
- Few and short where the prayers we said,
- And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
- But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
- And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
- We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
- And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
- That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
- And we far away on the billow!
- Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
- And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
- But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
- In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
- But half of our heavy task was done,
- When the clock struck the hour for retiring,
- And we heard the distant and random gun
- That the foe was sullenly firing.
- Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
- From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
- We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
- But we left him alone in his glory.
- Charles Wolfe
Poets' Corner .
H O M E .