Dirge for a Soldier
In the east the morning comes,Hear the rollin’ of the drumsOn the hill.But the heart that beat as they beatIn the battle’s raging day heatLieth still.Unto him the night has come,Though they roll the morning drum.
What is in the bugle’s blast?It is: “Victory at last!Now for rest.”But, my comrades, come behold him,Where our colors now enfold him,And his breastBares no more to meet the blade,But lies covered in the shade.
What a stir there is to-day!They are laying him awayWhere he fell.There the flag goes draped before him;Now they pile the grave sod o’er himWith a knell.And he answers to his nameIn the higher ranks of fame.
There’s a woman left to mournFor the child that she has borneIn travail.But her heart beats high and higher,With the patriot mother’s fire,At the tale.She has borne and lost a son,But her work and his are done.
Fling the flag out, let it wave;They ‘re returning from the grave—“Double quick!”And the cymbals now are crashing,Bright his comrades’ eyes are flashingFrom the thickBattle-ranks which knew him brave,No tears for a hero’s grave.
In the east the morning comes,Hear the rattle of the drumsFar away.Now no time for grief’s pursuing,Other work is for the doing,Here to-day.He is sleeping, let him restWith the flag across his breast.