Bivouac of the Dead

The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat the soldier’s last tattoo / 
No more on life’s parade shall meet that brave and fallen few / 
Nor war’s wild note nor glory’s peal shall thrill with fierce delight / 
Those hearts that never more may feel the rapture of the fight / 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, their plumed heads are bowed / 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, is now their martial shroud / 
And solemn funeral tears have washed the red stains from each brow / 
These bodies torn, by battle gashed, are free from anguish now / 

Rest on, sainted dead, dear as the blood you shed / 
On Fame’s eternal ground, silent tents are spread and glory guards, on solemn rounds, the bivouac of the dead / 

Beneath the earth of home you rest, far from the field / 
Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast on many a bloody shield / 
Your own proud land’s heroic soil is your hallowed grave / 
She claims from war his richest spoil, the ashes of her brave / 

Your glory shall not be forgot while fame her record keeps / 
For honor points the hallowed spot where valor proudly sleeps / 
Nor wreck nor change nor winter’s blight nor time’s remorseless doom / 
Shall dim one ray of glory’s light that gilds your deathless tomb / 

Chorus