Homer.    

	And the stern joy which warriors feel
	In foemen worthy of their steel.

Scott.    

	Ay me! what perils do environ
	The man that meddles with cold iron!

Butler.    

	His breast with wounds unnumber’d riven,
	His back to earth, his face to heaven.

Byron.    

	Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
	As his corse to the rampart we hurried.

Chas. Wolfe.    

	May that soldier a mere recreant prove
	That means not, hath not, or is not in love!

Shakespeare.    

	Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
	Dream of fighting fields no more;
	Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
	Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

Scott.    

Scott.    

	He slept an iron sleep,—
	Slain fighting for his country.

Homer.    

	As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we,
	What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?

Charles Kingsley.    

	God’s soldier be he!
	Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
	I would not wish them to a fairer death:
	And so his knell is knoll’d.

Shakespeare.    

	No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
	Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
	But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
	With his martial cloak around him.

Chas. Wolfe.    

	Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
	Your truth and valor wearing:
	The bravest are the tenderest,—
	The loving are the daring.

Bayard Taylor.    

	The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay;
	Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
	Wept o’er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
	Shoulder’d his crutch, and show’d how fields were won.

Goldsmith.    

	Then a soldier,
	Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
	Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
	Seeking the bubble reputation
	Even in the cannon’s mouth.

Shakespeare.    

	“What are the bugles blowin’ for?” said Files-on-Parade.
	“To turn you out, to turn you out,” the Colour Sergeant said.
	“What makes, you look so white, so, white?” said Files-on-Parade.
	“I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch,” the Colour-Sergeant said.
	“For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the dead march play.
	The regiment’s in ’ollow square,—They’re hangin’ him to-day;
	They’re taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away.
	And they’re haingin’ Danny Deever in the morning.”

Rudyard Kipling.    

Shakespeare.    

	All quiet along the Potomac they say
	Except now and then a stray picket
	Is shot as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
	By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

Ethel Lynn Beers.