  “Give us a song,” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, “We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.” They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon; Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Laurie.” Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot—and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars. And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Laurie.” Sleep, soldiers still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest,— The loving are the daring. —Bayard Taylor. The tree does not fall at the first stroke. |
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