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For I'm dreaming' of the soldier, on his pallet bed of straw ; As the leaves are growing- yellow and November winds are
raw— And a vision comes before me of aching, fever'd brow; And a proud form blighted, blasted, strangely, strangely
alter'd now.
And I feel that strong- heart beating fainter, fainter with each
breath, Fluttering- softly in its prison, fluttering thro' the gate of
death ; And a voice of sad despairing- stirs my heart's deep fountain
now,— As my hand is slowly wandering o'er that strangely altered
brow.
And a sigh, soul full of longing-, fills the chambers of my soul—
While the quivering heart-strings whisper "Life's a tale that soon is told ;"
God of Love, receive the soldier on that dim mysterious shore,
Where the weary are at rest and souls are sad, ah ! nevermore.
Still the dusky sybil, " Future," on her dim, prophetic
leaves, Writes that death will claim the soldier, when he gathers up
his sheaves; This is why I'm ever sighing, and my heart cannot be gay, As the eve with low refraining comes to shroud the dying
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