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