Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
⁠Sleep the 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 thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
⁠Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sounds shall reach thine ear,
⁠Armor'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 daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,