lirik lagu ghizela rowe - the record - letitia elizabeth landon
he sleeps, his head upon his sword
his soldier’s cloak a shroud;
his church~yard is the open field,~~
three times it has been plough’d:
the first time that the wheat sprung up
’twas black as if with blood
the meanest beggar turn’d away
from the unholy food
the third year, and the grain grew fair
as it was won’t to wave;
none would have thought that golden corn
was growing on the grave
his lot was but a peasant’s lot
his name a peasant’s name
not his the place of death that turns
into a place of fame
he fell as other thousands do
trampled down where they fall
whilе on a single name is heap’d
thе glory gain’d by all
yet even he whose common grave
lies in the open fields
died not without a thought of all
the joy that glory yields
that small white church in his own land
the lime trees almost hide
bears on the walls the names of those
who for their country died
his name is written on those walls
his mother read it there
with pride,~~oh! no, there could not be
pride in the widow’s prayer
and many a stranger who shall mark
that peasant roll of fame
will think on prouder ones, yet say
this was a hero’s name
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