Where the sun may shine upon it, 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 soften: He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin. 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 tion, On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes Long as the sun doth shine upon it, The Burial of Sir John Moore We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, 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, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 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 For Home But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. Country But half of our heavy task was done, and 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. CHARLES WOLFE. 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, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. At the day-break, from the fallow, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, SIR WALTER SCOTT. "The Lady of the Lake." For Home and Country Recessional God of our fathers, known of old- The tumult and the shouting dies- Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, For Home and Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! Country Far-called our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire- Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Or lesser breeds without the Law— For heathen heart that puts her trust And guarding calls not Thee to guard- Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. RUDYARD KIPLING. The Fatherland Where is the true man's fatherland? |