62 



FUNEREAL SKETCHES, No. XXXI. 



SOLDIER'S DIRGE. 



Rally ! Let their hot ranks know 

 They have found a Parthian foe — 

 And our deep mouthed clarions ring 

 On — for England and her king. 



On ! The flashing sabre's stroke 

 Lights us through the battle's smoke : — 

 Spears are gleaming at each breast. 

 Falchions redden on each crest ; 

 And our every petronel 

 Works its bidding deadly well. 



Thou hast found a troubled bier, 

 'Neath our hoofs, brave cuirassier ! 

 Long must wait thy gentle mate — 

 Spinning at her cottage gate, 

 With thy first-born on her knee- 

 Wait for Love's return and thee. 

 , Is thy orphan child more dear 

 Widow of the cuirassier ? 



Kings have read it, serfs can vouch 

 Honour is a gory couch. 

 Kings, the pageant and the hearse, 

 And the herald with his verse; 

 And ^e anthem and the priest 

 Lay in consecrated rest* 

 Where the battle's lost and won, 

 While the war dust hides the sun ; 

 Sounds the volley ; rings the steel ; 

 Lances glitter; squadrons wheel — 

 All their death work madly urge ; 

 There is heard the Soldier's dirge. 



