Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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THE SOLDIER'S DIRGE. |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
THE SOLDIER'S DIRGE.
“Blow softly, ye winds,” cried the poor homeless stranger,
As slowly he trudged o'er the dark dreary moor;
“Beat lightly, ye rains, on a wretch left to danger,
In quest, this sad night, of a lodging secure.
I've braved Gallic valour, and triumph'd victorious;
I've stood shot and shell on Corunna's cold shore,
And yet I must stray here, thus friendless, inglorious,
And ne'er see the smile of my Mary once more.”
As slowly he trudged o'er the dark dreary moor;
“Beat lightly, ye rains, on a wretch left to danger,
In quest, this sad night, of a lodging secure.
I've braved Gallic valour, and triumph'd victorious;
I've stood shot and shell on Corunna's cold shore,
And yet I must stray here, thus friendless, inglorious,
And ne'er see the smile of my Mary once more.”
His gore-tarnish'd helmet he tore off in anguish;
Exposed his dark locks to the night dews of heaven;
On the red field of Fleurus he left was to languish,
Where thousands that day were from life's mansions driven.
Around him the victims of slaughter were lying,
Around him the wounded in sorrow did wail;
The wind in the cannons' mouths wildly was sighing,
And the sentinel's lone foot was heard in the dale.
Exposed his dark locks to the night dews of heaven;
On the red field of Fleurus he left was to languish,
Where thousands that day were from life's mansions driven.
Around him the victims of slaughter were lying,
Around him the wounded in sorrow did wail;
The wind in the cannons' mouths wildly was sighing,
And the sentinel's lone foot was heard in the dale.
The thick film of death o'er his din eye was spreading,
His tongue, parched with thirst, to his palate did cling,
O'er the corses of comrades and foes he was treading,
Where the vulture's harsh scream did their requiem sing.
His brain reels, he faints, he falls prone on the damp ground;
Life's joys and life's woes to the warrior are o'er—
He sleeps now for aye 'neath the sward of the camp ground,
Unbless'd with the smile of his Mary once more.
His tongue, parched with thirst, to his palate did cling,
O'er the corses of comrades and foes he was treading,
Where the vulture's harsh scream did their requiem sing.
His brain reels, he faints, he falls prone on the damp ground;
Life's joys and life's woes to the warrior are o'er—
He sleeps now for aye 'neath the sward of the camp ground,
Unbless'd with the smile of his Mary once more.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |