At his post the "Little Major"
Dropped his drum that battle day;
On the grass all stain'd with crimson
Thro' that battlenight he lay.
Crying, "Oh! For love of Jesus,
Grant me but this little boon!
Can you, friend, refuse me water?
Can you, when I die so soon?"
Chorus:
Crying, "Oh! For love of Jesus,
Grant me but this little boon!
Can you, friend, refuse me water?
Can you, when I die so soon?"
There are none to hear or help him
All his friends were early fled,
Save the forms outstretch'd around him
Of the dying and the dead.
Hush, they come! There falls a footstep!
How it makes his heart rejoice!
They will help, oh they will save him
When they hear his fainting voice.
Chorus
Now the lights are flashing 'round him,
And he hears a loyal word.
Strangers they, whose lips pronounce it,
Yet he trusts his voice is heard.
It is heard -- oh, God forgive them!
They refuse his dying pray'r!
"Nothing but a wounded drummer,"
So they say, and leave him there.
Chorus
See! the moon that shone above him,
Veils her face as if in grief;
And the skies are sadly weeping,
Shedding tear drops of relief.
Yet to die, by fiends forsaken,
With his last request denied;
This he felt his keenest anguish,
When at morn he gasp'd and died.
Chorus
