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

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

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

Go, forget me! why should sorrow O’er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me, and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing!
Smile,—though I shall not be near thee;
Sing,—though I shall never hear thee!