We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
    The sods with our bayonets turning;
  By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light,
    And the lanthorn dimly burning.

  No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
    Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
  But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest,
    With his martial cloak around him.

  Few and short were the prayers we said,
    And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
  But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
    And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

  We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
    And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
  That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,
    And we far away on the billow!

  Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,
    And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,
  But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on
    In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

  But half of our heavy task was done,
    When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
  And we heard the distant and random gun
    That the foe was sullenly firing.

  Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
    From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
  We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—­
    But we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

* * * * *

“PICCIOLA.”

  It was a Sergeant old and gray,
     Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage,
  Went tramping in an army’s wake
     Along the turnpike of the village.

  For days and nights the winding host
     Had through the little place been marching,
  And ever loud the rustics cheered,
     Till every throat was hoarse and parching.

  The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame,
     All took the sight’s electric stirring,
  And hats were waved and staves were sung,
     And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.

  They only saw a gallant show
     Of heroes stalwart under banners,
  And, in the fierce heroic glow,
    ’Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.

  The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
     Where he behind in step was keeping;
  But glancing down beside the road
     He saw a little maid sit weeping.

  “And how is this?” he gruffly said,
     A moment pausing to regard her;—­
  “Why weepest thou, my little chit?”
     And then she only cried the harder.

  “And how is this, my little chit?”
    The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
  “When all the village cheers us on,
    That you, in tears, apart are seated?

  “We march two hundred thousand strong,
    And that’s a sight, my baby beauty,
  To quicken silence into song
    And glorify the soldier’s duty.”

  “It’s very, very grand, I know,”
    The little maid gave soft replying;
  “And Father, Mother, Brother too,
    All say ‘Hurrah’ while I am crying;