Forward

A soldier laid him down to die:
His wound was deep, his life a-failing:
He called a comrade charging by:
The shells were flying, balls a-hailing.

"O brother, take this purse of gold:"
The steeds were rushing, cannon leaping:
"And bear it to my mother old:"
His voice was shaken here with weeping.

"O brother," said the comrade then:
The turf was red with blood a-streaming:
"Your errand fits but wounded men:
The bayonets came on a-gleaming.

"I came to fight, and not to fly:
I shall not live to see your mother:
So pray that I may bravely die,
And trust your treasure to another."