I can see your drowsy lashes
Lifting as you hear them read
Prayers in mercy for our souls' shrift
When we come to our last need.
I forgive you, matchless beauty,
Proudly conscious of your fame,
Loved by many a luckless youngster
Who will ne'er forget your name!
Merry, though so cold of answer,
With a laughing glance of steel,
How your face swept like a banner,
Blushing down the village reel!
As you dance before my vision
On this deadly foreign morn,
Death is charmed into the soothing
Of the love you chose to scorn.
We shall die—our hours are numbered—
As the sunlight dawns serene
Over yonder mountain ridges,
Rimming round this battle scene.
I shall die—few will return, dear;
I shall be of those who stay:
England sent us, but a handful,
Among hordes of heathen clay.
We will show the world how England
Has no dross to spend in war;
When she throws away her soldiers,
They are soldiers to the core.
You will wake to hear the twitter
Of the early sparrow's note:
I shall lie beneath the heavens,
With the death-grip at my throat!
THE LOST BATTLE
To his heart it struck such terror
That he laughed a laugh of scorn,—
The man in the soldier's doublet,
With the sword so bravely worn.