Not a drum beat was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his last farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him alone in the middle of the night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light
And the lantern 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.
Both few and short were the prayers that we said;
We spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gaz’d on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.