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SONG
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep
that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no
more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our
isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are
strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense
in slumber dewing.
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.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor
pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron
tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At
the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound
his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder
sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders
challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and
champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping....
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our
slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the
rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are
by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy
chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at
dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
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