“GIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,

  The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camp 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

Rose like an anthem rich and strong,

  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.