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NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse 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 moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor 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;

And we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd 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
Of the enemy 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 stoneBut we left him alone with his glory!



OH! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run.
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between light and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain;
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys, and softer woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle as when first I sued
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,

As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon

Set on the sea an hour too soon,

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at my feet

Five sons and one fair daughter sweet,

And time and care and birthtime woes

Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose,

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend, like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
How we should deck our humble bower;
Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine:
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;

And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower,
Oh then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And proud resolve and purpose meek
Speak of thee more than words can speak.

I think this wedded life of mine

The best of all things not divine.

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A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free,

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