She sits in our long, dark ward
By the light of a shaded lamp,
No sound but the cry of relievin' guard
An' the sentinel's heavy tramp:
No sound but the cry of relievin' guard
An' the waves that hiss an' roar
For miles upon miles, each side of our ward,
On the level an' wastin' shore.
We lie here in shadow an' gloom—
No light but that speck of a lamp—
An' silent, for three hours back, as the tomb
Are the songs that come from the camp;
Chill are these hospital sheds,
An' the silence is dreadfully deep,
Save a groan, as our wounded turn in their beds,
Or talk in their troubled sleep.
On her table within the ring
Of light from the lamp that falls,
There are vials, an' fruits, an' many a thing
For which faintin' nature calls;—
Wine for the gray-beard,—torpedo-torn,
Who is sinkin' fast to his rest;
An' a letter from home—can he live till morn?
For the boy that is shot in the breast.
But hark to that rattle!—she starts
An' glides to the poor boy's bed;
The struggle is over. O, lovin' hearts
For him let no tears be shed!
Happy, God witness, is his relapse
An' its thankful am I he's gone,
While tenderly over his cold, dead face
By her hands the sheets are drawn.
Dozens of men—'twas a sorry sight—
In the trenches I've helped to lay;
Tall, sthrappin' lads wid their youth still bright,
An' ould men wid heads that was gray;
Friends an' foes, packed side by side
On the battle-field's common bier,—
But I'm thankful at heart this poor boy died
Wid the knowledge that she was near.
The ward is silent again
As our lady resumes her place,
An' I see, as I watch her, a patient pain
That is pitiful in her face;
O, lily of beauty, too bright for a camp,
O, Saint, that our sorrows will share!
Now I see by the light of the shaded lamp
Tears fall on the page of her prayer.