Wake, soldier, wake, thy war-horse waits To bear thee to the battle back; Thou slumberest at a foemans gates, Thy dog would break thy bivouac; Thy plume is trailing in the dust And thy red falchion gathering rust.
Gayly we glide in the gaze of the world With streamers afloat and with canvas unfurled, All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with sighs.
On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave. The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle; He heeds not, he hears not, hes free from all pain; He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle; No sound can awake him to glory again!