Never more will it be warm;
Chilled beneath that iron storm,
--Slain in battle!

Not a pillow for his head--
Not a hand to smooth his bed--
Not one tender parting said,
--Slain in battle!

Straightway from that bloody sod,
Where the trampling horsemen trod--
Lifted to the arms of God;
--Slain in battle!

Not my love to come between,
With its interposing screen--
Naught of earth to intervene;
--Slain in battle!

Snatched the purple billows o'er,
Through the fiendish rage and roar,
To the far and peaceful shore;
--Slain in battle!

_Nunc demitte_--thus I pray--
What else left for me to say,
Since my life is reft away?
--Slain in battle!

Let me die, oh! God!--the dart