The Soldier's Funeral by: Anne S. Bushby (????-1875)

sunshine

Heard ye the sound of the muffled drum
And the trumpet's mournful blast?
They tell that the soldier's time has come,
His dreams of glory past!

Saw ye yon bier, on whose sable pall
A sword and helmet rest?
No more by that helm at bugle-call
Shall the soldier's brow be prest.

Saw ye yon noble war-horse led
The funeral rites to grace?
Dark plumes are waving o'er his head,
And he walks with measured pace.

Oh, never more shall the soldier guide
His gallant steed again.
Nor mingle more in youthful pride
'Midst yonder glittering train.

Slowly, with arms reversed, they tread
As they follow to the grave
Him who, now number'd with the dead,
Was the bravest of the brave.