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by Aaron Bernstein
No more your comrades’ strident screams
Shall mar your peaceful rest;
Your battle’s o’er, your strife is done,
Sleep deep in Mother’s breast.
Farewell! Dear friend, farewell,
The fever’s past.
Though gone from us,
You know perhaps
The bugler’s playing Taps.
Farewell, dear friend, your time has come,
Tomorrow then, my turn perhaps
To cause the bugle’s mellow notes
Ring though the dusk
With measured bars of Taps.
How still upon the sunset’s breast
The mellow, bell-like notes are pressed.
Though cannon roar, still all is quiet,
As if ‘twere silent, Holy night.
The silver tones of Taps
Still linger while the twilight falls
The saddest of the bugler’s calls.
The notes say, “Go to sleep and rest.”
Farewell, dear friend, farewell.
Just one more look before I go.
Just one more tear to fall,
Just one salute to you and then,
God bless your soul, Amen.
491st. Armored Field Artillery Battalion