Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory:

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—

But we left him alone with his glory.

—Charles Wolfe (1791-1823).

沒有打鼓，也沒有哀樂，

當我們把它的尸體運到城堡，

在我們的英雄埋葬者的墓上，

也沒有一名士兵鳴放禮炮。

我們埋葬他在悄悄的夜晚，

使用我們的刺刀在土中翻；

靠著霧中露出的朦朧月光，

還有些閃著光的暗淡燈火。

包藏它的胸坎沒有無用的棺，

也沒有壽衣壽布把他裹纏；

但他躺著正如一名戰士，

穿著他的軍服和衣而眠。

祈禱的話語人少而語短，

我們所說的沒有一句哀婉；

我們堅定凝視著死者的面龐，

只沉痛地在想到明天。

當我們掘著他狹窄的墓坑，

我們把他頭上的土塊放平，

我們想到未知的敵人回來蹂躪他的頭顱，

而我們已經在海上航行！

敵兵會輕蔑這陣亡了的將軍，

會在他的尸駭上議論縱橫；

但只要他們讓他安睡在墓中，

所埋葬的英國人，他會泰然不問。

但我們的埋葬工作只到一半，

時鐘已報道著撤退的時間；

我們也聽到遠遠的散亂炮聲，

敵人在向我們亂放子彈。

悲傷地讓他徐徐躺下，

渾身還帶著榮譽陣地的血花；

我們沒寫一行字，沒立一塊碑，

但只讓他的光榮永遠伴著他。

——查爾斯·沃爾夫（1791-1823）