Wake, soldier, wake, thy war-horse waits
To bear thee to the battle back;
Thou slumberest at a foeman’s gates,—
Thy dog would break thy bivouac;
Thy plume is trailing in the dust
And thy red falchion gathering rust.
The dead Trumpeter.
Gayly we glide in the gaze of the world
With streamers afloat and with canvas unfurled,
All gladness and glory to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with sighs.