Modern reciter/The Death of Sir John Moore

by Charles Wolfe

For other versions of this work, see The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna.

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On the Death of Sir John Moore.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's dusky light,
And our lanterns 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;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of to-morrow———

We thought-as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd 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 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 fo 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 left him alone in his glory!

Wolfe