“Not a drum was heard—not a funeral note—As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero was buried.“We buried him darkly, at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.“No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Nor 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 of the dead,And 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 onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.“But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiringAnd we heard the distant and random gunOf the enemy, suddenly firing.“Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;We carved not a line—we raised not a stone—But we left him alone with his glory.”
“Not a drum was heard—not a funeral note—As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero was buried.“We buried him darkly, at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.“No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Nor 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 of the dead,And 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 onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.“But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiringAnd we heard the distant and random gunOf the enemy, suddenly firing.“Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;We carved not a line—we raised not a stone—But we left him alone with his glory.”
“Not a drum was heard—not a funeral note—As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero was buried.
“Not a drum was heard—not a funeral note—
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
“We buried him darkly, at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.
“We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
“No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.
“No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor 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 of the dead,And bitterly thought of the morrow.
“Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And 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.
“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 onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.
“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 retiringAnd we heard the distant and random gunOf the enemy, suddenly firing.
“But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring
And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy, suddenly firing.
“Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;We carved not a line—we raised not a stone—But we left him alone with his glory.”
“Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;
We carved not a line—we raised not a stone—
But we left him alone with his glory.”
The battle was continued until dark, under great disadvantages on the part of the French, owing to the difficulty they experienced in dragging their heavy cannon on to the heights, and their small amount of ammunition. The French loss has been estimated at three thousand, and the British at eight hundred; but the loss of the French was undoubtedly exaggerated. The English availed themselves of the darkness and the confusion among the enemy to embark their troops; and so complete were the arrangementsof Sir John Hope, who succeeded to the command, that it was all effected, without delay or difficulty, before morning. The wounded were provided for, and the fleet, although fired upon by the French, sailed on the 17th for their home in England.
But their trials were not yet closed. It was Sir John Moore’s intention to have proceeded to Vigo, that he might restore order before he sailed for England, but the fleet went directly home from Corunna, and a terrible storm scattered it, many ships were wrecked, and the remainder, driving up the channel, were glad to put into any port. The soldiers thus thrown on shore were spread all over the country. Their haggard appearance, ragged clothing, and dirty accoutrements, struck a people only used to the daintiness of parade with surprise. A deadly fever, the result of anxiety and of the sudden change from fatigue to the confinement of a ship, filled the hospitals at every port with officers and soldiers, and the terrible state of the army was the all-absorbing topic of conversation.