One day there came a message--'twas like a golden ray--
"Victoria, Britain's noble Queen, will visit you to-day;"
It lighted up each visage, it acted like a spell,
On Britain's wounded heroes, who'd fought for her so well.
One soldier lay among them, fast fading was his life,
A lancer from the border, from the good old county Fife;
Already was death's icy grasp upon his honest brow,
When through the ward was passed the word, "The Queen is coming
now!"
The dying Scottish laddie, with hand raised to his head,
Saluted Britain's Sovereign, and with an effort said--
"And may it please your Majesty, I'm noo aboot to dee,
I'd like to rest wi' mither, beneath the auld raugh tree.
"But weel I ken, your Majesty, it canna, mauna be,
Yet, God be thanked, I might hae slept wi' ithers o'er the sea,
'Neath Balaclava's crimsoned sward, where many a comrade fell,
But now I'll rest on Medway's bank, in sound of Christian bell."
She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she chose
For the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose;
And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seen
The simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen.
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