Classic Poem

They laid his soldier-comrade down
To rest, his warfare o'er;
He thought upon a little town
Would never see him more.

A little kirk upon a hill,
Far in the cold, grey North,
A little kirkyard, green and still,
That looks across the Forth.

Would he too find a nameless grave
Beside this foreign deep,
Far from the dear familiar wave
By which his fathers sleep?

What matter, wheresoe'er we lie,
Within the wide earth's bounds,
So we can meet our Captain's eye,
When the last bugle sounds?

He laid a branch upon the bank
For him who slept below,
Then turned and stept into his rank,
His face toward the foe.