The Blind Soldier And His Daughter. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
By William Lisle Bowles
Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day,
That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away,
And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,
Old soldier!
The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led,
No longer are heard on the battle-field red;
Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead,
Old soldier!
Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band,
By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient land
Where the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand,
Old soldier!
Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned,
Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind,
Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind,
Old soldier!
That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride,
And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side,
To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide,
Old soldier!
Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray,
Or turn from a desolate father away,
That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay,
Old soldier!
But may every true Briton, whose country is dear,
Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear,
Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer,
Old soldier!
Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring,
And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing,
Old England for ever, and God save the King!
Old soldier!