Puslapio vaizdai
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Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover;
He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;
Make his mound with hers who called him once
her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;
Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver


Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it,

Where the bee will dine upon it,

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be

the clover;

Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should

be his cover;

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Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often

Out of those tender eyes which evermore did


He never could look cold till we saw him in his



Make his mound with sunshine on it.
Plant the lordly pine upon it,

Where the moon may stream upon it,

And memory shall dream upon it.

Captain or Colonel,”-whatever invocation

Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy sta


On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes
of a mighty nation!

Long as the sun doth shine upon it,
Shall glow the goodly pine upon it,

Long as the stars do gleam upon it,
Shall memory come to dream upon it.

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The Burial of Sir John Moore
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the rampart 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 the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'e
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—

For Home and "Country

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 stoneBut we left him alone in his glory.


Soldier, Rest!

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more:

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing;
Trump nor pibroch summon here,

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,
At the day-break, from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.


From "The Lady of the Lake."

For Home

and Country


God of our fathers, known of old-
Lord of our far-flung battle-line-
Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-
The captains and the kings depart―.

Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.


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