THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
AT CORUNNA

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

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 stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE

WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME

THERE'S a happy time coming,

When the boys come home.
There's a glorious day coming,
When the boys come home.
We will end the dreadful story
Of this treason, dark and gory,
In a sunburst of glory,

When the boys come home.

The day will seem brighter

When the boys come home, For our hearts will be lighter When the boys come home. Wives and sweethearts will press them, In their arms and caress them, And pray God to bless them, When the boys come home.

The thinned ranks will be proudest
When the boys come home,
And their cheer will ring the loudest
When the boys come home.
The full ranks will be shattered,
And the bright arms will be battered,
And the battle-standards tattered,
When the boys come home.

Their bayonets may be rusty,
When the boys come home,
And their uniforms dusty,

When the boys come home.
But all shall see the traces
Of battle's royal graces,

In the brown and bearded faces,
When the boys come home.

Our love shall go to meet them,
When the boys come home,
To bless them and to greet them,
When the boys come home;

And the fame of their endeavor
Time and change shall not dissever
From the nation's heart forever,

When the boys come home.

JOHN HAY

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the

Lord;

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling

camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and

damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of

steel;

'As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal;

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel,'

Since God is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call

retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment

seat;

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

JULIA WARD HOWE

SOLDIERS OF THE LIGHT

GOD end War! but when brute War is ended,
Yet there shall be many a noble soldier,
Many a noble battle worth the winning,
Many a hopeless battle worth the losing.
Life is battle,

Life is battle, even to the sunset.