At his post, the "Little Major"
Dropp'd his drum, that battle-day;
On the grass, all stain'd with crimson,
Through that battle-night he lay-
Crying "Oh! for love of Jesus,
Grant me but this little boon!
Can you, friend, refuse me water?
Can you, when I die so soon?"
Crying "Oh! for love of Jesus,
Grant me but this little boon!
Can you, friend, refuse me water?
Can you, when I die so soon?"
They are none to hear or help him-
All his friends were early fled,
Save the forms, outstrech'd around him,
Of the dying and the dead.
Hush-they come! there falls a footstep!
How it makes his heart rejoice!
They will help, Oh, they will save him,
When they hear his fainting voice-
Now the lights are flashing round him,
And he hears a loyal word,
Strangers they, whose lips pronounce it,
Yet he trusts his voice is heard.
It is heard-Oh, God forgive them!
They refuse his dying pray'r!
"Nothing but a wounded drummer,"
So they say, and leave him there-
See! the moon that shone above him,
Veils her face, as if in grief;
And the skies are sadly weeping-
Shielding teardrops of relief.
Yet to die, by friends forsaken,
With his last request denied-
This he felt his keenest anguish,
When at morn, he gasp'd and died-
