At his post, the "Little Major" br Dropp'd his drum, that battle-day; br On the grass, all stain'd with crimson, br Through that battle-night he lay-- br Crying "Oh! for love of Jesus, br Grant me but this little boon! br Can you, friend, refuse me water? br Can you, when I die so soon?" br br Crying "Oh! for love of Jesus, br Grant me but this little boon! br Can you, friend, refuse me water? br Can you, when I die so soon?" br br They are none to hear or help him-- br All his friends were early fled, br Save the forms, outstrech'd around him, br Of the dying and the dead. br Hush--they come! there falls a footstep! br How it makes his heart rejoice! br They will help, Oh, they will save him, br When they hear his fainting voice-- br br Now the lights are flashing round him, br And he hears a loyal word, br Strangers they, whose lips pronouce it, br Yet he trusts his voice is heard. br It is heard--Oh, God forgive them! br They refuse his dying pray'r! br "Nothing but a wounded drummer," br So they say, and leave him there-- br br See! the moon that shone above him, br Veils her face, as if in grief; br And the skies are sadly weeping-- br Shielding teardrops of relief.