| 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— |
| |
| 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. |
| |
| 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. |
| |
| 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. |
| |
| 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. |
| |
| 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? |
| |
| 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. |
| |
| 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. |
| |
| 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. |
| |
| 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." |
