Hush your prayers, 'tis no saintly soul
Comes fainting back from the foughten field;
Carry me forth on my broken shield;
Trumpet and drum shall my requiem yield—
Silence the bells that toll.

Dig no hole in the ground for me:
Though my body be made of mold and must,
Ne'er in the earth shall my dead bones rust;
Give my corse to the flame's white lust,
And sink my ashes at sea.

Reeking still with the sweat of the strife,
Never a prayer have I to say
(My lips long since have forgotten the way)
Save this: “I have sorrowed sore in my day—
But I thank Thee, God, for my life!”