WILLIAM THE BRAVE. By the side of yon streamlêt there grows a green wil low That bends to its surface and kisses each wave; There, lonely at evening, when day is declining, With tears to the memory of William the brave. OUR bugles sang truce-for the night cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 172 MILITARY SONGS. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft, In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart. Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn, THE LAST BUGLE. HARK! the muffled drum sounds the last march of the brave, The soldier retreats to his quarters, the grave, Under death, whom he owns his commander-in-chief, Farewell brother soldiers, in peace may you rest, REST! WARRIOR, REST! He comes from the wars, from the red field of fight; nd for refuge now fain to implore, ence and sleep in the cottager's bed, he may dream, but the vision shall tell y-love's bower, and her latest farewell. ughts on the pinions of fancy shall roam, mber revisit his love and his home, eyes of affection with tenderness gleam, would awake from so blissful a dream? Rest! warrior, rest! H I AM NOW A VERY LITTLE LAD TUNE The White Cockade.' I am now a very little lad, ng men cannot be had; of a better I may do, the boys with a rat tat too; n tender, yet I'm tough, h not much of me, I'm right good stuff; s afraid to face my man. For your row dow dow, s I'll knock about, oh! that's my joy, Give the word and I'll march where you command, He'll never want a girl when I am by. For a chickabiddy, &c. Though a barber has never yet mowed my chin, Oh! zounds! how I'll kiss my landlady. MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard nor a funeral note, Few and short were the prayers we said, No useless coffin confin'd his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, We thought as we heap'd the narrow bed, 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, But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on, But half our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and glory, UPON the hill he turn'd, to take a last fond look He listen'd to the sounds so familiar to his ear, a tear. Beside that cottage porch, a girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf, which flutter'd in the breeze; She breath'd a prayer for him, a prayer he could not hear; But he paused to bless her as she knelt, and wiped away a tear. He turn'd and left the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak, For dauntless was the soldier's heart, though tears were on his cheek! |