Though we must die, I would not die 
When fields are brown and bleak, 
When wild-geese stream across the sky, 
And the cart-lodge timbers creak. 
For it would be so lone and drear 
To sleep beneath the snow, 
When children carol Christmas cheer, 
And Christmas rafters glow. 

Nor would I die, though we must die, 
When yeanlings blindly bleat, 
When the cuckoo laughs, and lovers sigh, 
And O, to live is sweet! 
When cowslips come again, and Spring 
Is winsome with their breath, 
And Life's in love with everything — 
With everything but Death. 

Let me not die, though we must die, 
When bowls are brimmed with cream, 
When milch-cows in the meadows lie, 
Or wade amid the stream; 
When dewy-dimpled roses smile 
To see the face of June, 
And lad and lass meet at the stile, 
Or roam beneath the moon. 

Since we must die, then let me die 
When flows the harvest ale, 
When the reaper lays the sickle by, 
And taketh down the flail; 
When all we prized, and all we planned, 
Is ripe and stored at last, 
And Autumn looks across the land, 
And ponders on the past: 
Then let me die. 

His gallant form is lying on
The cold and blood-stained ground,
While thunders of the battle-field
Are raging loud around.
His helmet with its waving plume
Is lying by his side,
And from his heart the warm life-blood
Is flowing like a tide.

His blood-stained sword that's been his friend
In many a well-fought field,
Has fallen from his nerveless hand,
Unable now to wield.
The hue of death is on his cheek,.
And in his bloodshot eye,
He feels the death-chill on his brow,
And knows that he must die.

"Oh, raise my languid form," he says,
"And let me see once more
The charge of my own legions brave,
As on the foe they pour.
Go, go to them,and tell them
'Tis my last request, my all,
To onward press to victory,
And avenge their leader's fall!"

They raised him from the cold, damp ground,—
His faithful followers there,— 
And wiped the clotted blood from out
His dark and matted hair.
He glanced one moment on the fight—
The spirit fires him now—
"Oh, give me once my steed," he says,
"My helmet on my brow,

"And I will lead my men once more
To victory, or to death!"—
That moment with his life-blood passed
His last, his latest breath.
But victory crowned his banners bright,
His last high wish was granted,
That wish for which his blood was spilt,
For which his soul had panted.