The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
The soldier’s last tattoo,
No more on life’s parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few
On Fame’s eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead
No rumour of the foe’s advance
Now swells upon the wind,
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind
No vision of the morrow’s strife
The warriors dream alarms.
No braying horn, no screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle’s stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past.
Your own proud land’s heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave,
She claims from war his richest spoil,
The ashes of her brave.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave.
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
The Bivouac of the Dead, Theordore O'Hara