Charles Wolfe

Not a drum was heard not a funeral note As his corse to the rampart we hurried.

Go, forget me - why should sorrow, O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me - and tomorrow, brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile - though I shall not be near thee; Sing - though I shall never hear thee.

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him.