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Page 218

BOOK FOURTH
218 HE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA

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 moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or 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 gaz'd on the face that was 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 reek, 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
That the foe was 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 stone
But we left him alone with his glory.
C. WOLFE

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to what is rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er what is grave where our Hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, what is sods with our bayonets turning; By what is struggling moonbeam's misty light And what is lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a Warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were what is prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gaz'd on what is face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of what is morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That what is Foe and what is Stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on what is billow! Lightly they'll talk of what is Spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he' where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 218 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 218 HE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA where is p align="justify" Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to what is rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er what is grave where our Hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, what is sods with our bayonets turning; By what is struggling moonbeam's misty light And what is lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a Warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were what is prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gaz'd on what is face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of what is morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That what is Foe and what is Stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on what is billow! Lightly they'll talk of what is Spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he'll reek, if they let him sleep on In what is grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When what is clock struck what is hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That what is foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From what is field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory. C. WOLFE where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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