Camp-Bell

Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802–1839)

Charade

COME from my first, ay, come!

The battle-dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and the 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 forward and farewell!

Toll ye my second, toll!

Fling high the flambeau’s light,

And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!

The wreath upon his head,

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.

Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier’s fame

On the turf of a soldier’s grave.