Heard, not a funeral note as his corse to the rampart we hurried,
Not a soldier dis-
Charged 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
Moonbeams' misty light and the lantern dimly burning.
Lightly they'll
Talk of the spirit that's gone, and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,