Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, |
Where the dead and dying lay, |
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, |
Somebody's Darling was borne one day— |
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Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, |
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, |
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, |
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. |
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Matted and damp are the curls of gold, |
Kissing the snow of the fair young brow, |
Pale are the lips of delicate mold— |
Somebody's Darling is dying now. |
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Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow |
Brush all the wandering waves of gold, |
Cross his hands on his bosom now— |
Somebody's Darling is still and cold. |
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Kiss him once for somebody's sake, |
Murmur a prayer both soft and low; |
One bright curl from its fair mates take— |
They were somebody's pride, you know. |
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Somebody's hand hath rested there— |
Was it a mother's, soft and white? |
And have the lips of a sister fair |
Been baptized in their waves of light? |
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God knows best! he was somebody's love; |
Somebody's heart enshrined him there; |
Somebody wafted his name above, |
Night and morn on the wings of prayer. |
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Somebody wept when he marched away, |
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; |
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, |
Somebody clung to his parting hand. |
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Somebody's waiting and watching for him— |
Yearning to hold him again to her heart; |
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, |
And the smiling, child-like lips apart. |
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Tenderly bury the fair young dead, |
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; |
Carve in the wooden slab at his head, |
"Somebody's Darling slumbers here." |