Page:National Lyrics.pdf/173

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The soldier's heart at thy step leaped high, And thy voice the war-horse knew; And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, Wert thou, the bold and true.

Now mayest thou slumber—thy work is done— Thou of the well-worn sword! From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone, But not to the festal board.

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, Where fiery blood hath flowed:— Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound! Thou art couch'd in a still abode!

A quiet home from the noonday's glare, And the breath of the wintry blast— Didst thou toil thro' the days of thy silvery hair, To win thee but this at last?