At his post, the "Little Major" <br />Dropp'd his drum, that battle-day; <br />On the grass, all stain'd with crimson, <br />Through that battle-night he lay-- <br />Crying "Oh! for love of Jesus, <br />Grant me but this little boon! <br />Can you, friend, refuse me water? <br />Can you, when I die so soon?" <br /> <br />Crying "Oh! for love of Jesus, <br />Grant me but this little boon! <br />Can you, friend, refuse me water? <br />Can you, when I die so soon?" <br /> <br />They are none to hear or help him-- <br />All his friends were early fled, <br />Save the forms, outstrech'd around him, <br />Of the dying and the dead. <br />Hush--they come! there falls a footstep! <br />How it makes his heart rejoice! <br />They will help, Oh, they will save him, <br />When they hear his fainting voice-- <br /> <br />Now the lights are flashing round him, <br />And he hears a loyal word, <br />Strangers they, whose lips pronouce it, <br />Yet he trusts his voice is heard. <br />It is heard--Oh, God forgive them! <br />They refuse his dying pray'r! <br />"Nothing but a wounded drummer," <br />So they say, and leave him there-- <br /> <br />See! the moon that shone above him, <br />Veils her face, as if in grief; <br />And the skies are sadly weeping-- <br />Shielding teardrops of relief. <br />Yet to die, by friends forsaken, <br />With his last request denied-- <br />This he felt his keenest anquish, <br />When at morn, he gasp'd and died--<br /><br />Henry Clay Work<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-major/
