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THE REWARD OF THE BRAVE 



BY J. BANIM, ESQ. 



I. 



THE Irish soldier, cast for fight, 



Stood to his arms at dead of night, 



Watching the east, until its ray 



To the battle-field should show his way ; 



Soldier, soldier, soldier brave, 



You will fight though they call you slave, 



And though you but help a bandit hand 



Unchecked to kill in your native land. 



II. 



The soldier thought on his chance of doom 

 How the trampled sod might be his tomb 

 How, in evening's dusk, his sightless stare 

 To the small pale stars might upward glare ; 



Soldier, soldier, soldier brave, 



You will fight though you think of the grave 



Though it yawn so near you, black and chill, 



Honour and courage man you still. 



III. 



And o'er his solemn brow he made 



The Christian sign, and humbly said 



" Your prayers, good saints, if I should fall ; 



And for mercy, O Lord, on you I call !" 

 Irish soldier, soldier brave, 

 You will fight, although you crave 

 The prayers of the saints your own to aid, 

 And the sign of the cross on your brow have made 



IV. 



The morning broke the bugle blew 

 The voice of command the soldier knew, 

 And stern and straight in the van he stood, 

 And shouting, he rush'd to the work of blood ; 



Irish soldier, soldier bold, 



Thousands lay round you, crimson'd and cold 



But over their bodies you still fought on, 



Till down you sank as the day was won. 



V. 



And the Irish soldier now hath come, 



Worn, and wounded, and crippled, home, 



The hated, and slander'd, and scorn'd of those 



Who safely slept while he faced their foes ; 

 Irish soldier, soldier bold, 

 In your native land you now are told 

 Twas traitor-blood on that field you lost, 

 For you call'd on the saints, and your brow you cross'd ! 



