J. H. JOHNSON, Song Publisher, 7 N. Tenth St., Philadelphia.
Hark! To the shrill trumpet calling,
It pierceth the soft summer air!
Tears from each comrade are falling,
For the widow and orphan are there!
They bayonets earthward are turning,
And the drum’s muffled breath rolls around,
But he hears not the voice of their mourning.
Nor awakes to the Bugle’s sound. (Repeat.)
Sleep. Soldier! tho' many regret thee,
Who stand by the cold bier to-day,
Soon, soon shall the kindest forget thee,
And they name from the earth pass away.
The man who didst love as a brother,
A friend in thy place will have gain’d,
Thy dog shall keep watch for another—
And thy steed by a stranger be reined. (Repeat.)
But tho’ hearts that now mourn for thee sadly,
Soon joyous as ever shall be,
Tho’ thy bright orphan boy may laugh gladly,
As he sits on some kind comrade’s knee.
There is one who shall still pay the duty,
Of tears for the true and the brave,
And when first in the bloom of her beauty,
She wept o’er the soldier’s grave. (Repeat.)
J. H. JOHNSON, Stationer & Printer, 7 N, 10th St., Phila.