THE DEAD COMRADE
[_]
At the burial of Grant, a bugler stood forth and sounded “taps.”
I
Come, soldiers, arouse ye!
Another has gone;
Let us bury our comrade,
His battles are done.
His sun it is set;
He was true, he was brave,
He feared not the grave,
There is naught to regret.
II
Bring music and banners
And wreaths for his bier—
No fault of the fighter
That Death conquered here.
Bring him home ne'er to rove,
Bear him home to his rest,
And over his breast
Fold the flag of his love.
III
Great Captain of battles,
We leave him with Thee!
What was wrong, O, forgive it;
His spirit make free.
Sound taps, and away!
Out lights, and to bed!
Farewell, soldier dead!
Farewell—for a day.
