Page:Reciter (2).pdf/5

 Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of to-morrow---

We thought---as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow---

How 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 nothing 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 toll'd the hour for retiring,

And we heard by the distant and random gun,

That the foe was suddenly firing---

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory!

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But we left him---alone with his glory! Wolfe.

 

A, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry.'-