SOLDIER, REST!

SOLDIER, rest! they warfare o're,
Sleep they sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen they couch are strewing;
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! they warefare o're,
Dreams of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And he bettern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Gaurds nor warders challenge here;
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Walter Scott