Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mid the broken grass of a trampled glade,
Where the bayonets met and the fight was sorest,
We had found him lying; and there we laid
Our friend in the depth of an Indian forest;

Just as the evening shadow's pall
Over his grave from the hills came streaming,
By the rippied fret and the eddying fall
Of a snow-fed river, cool and creaming.

With the funeral march still echoing round,
We had spread the mould o'er his tartan gory;
But as we turned from the shapeless mound
Sweet rose the music of “Annie Laurie;”

Full and clear from the pacing band,
Passionate strain of a love-lorn story,
How can they breathe it in strangers' land,
Air of our northern Annie Laurie?

For he whom we leave in the lonely brake,
Watched by the Himalay mountains hoary,
Will not his brain from the death-sleep wake,
Touched by the magic of Annie Laurie?

Heaven forfend! May the earth lie dense
O'er the heart that beat and the eyes that glistened;
What if a motionless nerve has sense?
What if an upturned face had listened?

Listened! as over his prison close
Floated that rich, voluptuous cadence,
Faint with the scent, like an autumn rose,
Of youth, and beauty, and soft-hued maidens;

Of a long late eve, and the falling dew;
Never again shall the dew-drop wet him;
Of a woman's hand, and a promise true—
Will not the kindliest now forget him?

Chaining his spirit's upward flight,
Staying his soul, though at heaven's own portal,
With the soft refrain of a lost delight,
With the shadowy charm of a fairy mortal.

Lured by the sensuous melody's spell,
Little he recks of the angel's glory;
Piercing sad is the earth's farewell
Sighed in the music of “Annie Laurie.”