Classic Poem

The English Infantry are Orphans now,
Pale Sorrow hangs on every Souldiers brow:
Who now in Honour's path shall lead you on,
Since your beloved General is gon?
Furl up your Ensigns, case the warlike Drum,
 Pay your last honours to his Tomb;
Hang down your Manly heads in sign of woe;
That now is all that your poor Loves can do;
Unless by Winter's Fire, or Summer's shade
To tell what a brave Leader once you had:
Hang your now useless Arms up in the Hall,
There let them rust upon the sweating Wall;
Go, till the Fields, and with inglorious Sweat,
An honest, but a painful living get:
Your old neglected Callings now renew,
And bid to glorious War a long adieu.