Come from my first—ay, come! the battle dawn is nigh,
And the screaming trump and thundering drum are calling thee to die!
Fight as thy father fought, fall as thy father fell;
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought, so forward, and farewell!
Toll ye, my second, toll! Fill high the flambeau’s light,
And sing the hymn of a parted soul beneath the silent night,
The wreath upon his head, the cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed—so take him to his rest.
Call ye my whole—ay, call the lord of lute and lay,
And let him greet the sable pall with a noble song to-day;