Thomas Campbell, the Poet

Come from my First, ay, come! For the battle hour is nigh: And the screaming trump and thundering drum Are calling thee to die! Fight, as thy father fought! Fall, as thy father fell! Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;— So—onward—and farewell.

Toll ye my Second, toll! Fling wide the flambeau's light, And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night. With the wreath upon his head, And the cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;— So—take him to his rest Call ye my Whole,—ay, call The lord of lute and lay! And let him greet the sable pall With a noble song to-day! Ay, call him by his name! Nor fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave.