_WANLOCKHEAD._
_On the death of their son, Private Robert Slimmon, Duke of
Cornwall's Light Infantry, while serving his country in Egypt._
Dear friends, the news has come to hand,
I scarce can think it true;
With heart that's sore I pen my thoughts
And send them on to you.
We cannot read the hand of Fate
Or what's in store foretell;
We know not why his life was claimed,
A life that promised well.
Fair as the noon of summer day,
Or like a flower in spring,
Or like the glint of morning sun
That makes the wild birds sing;
Such was his life. We had a glimpse
That filled our hearts with joy;
Alas! the rose but hid the thorn
As gold hides the alloy.
When loose becomes the silver cord,
And broken by death's strain,
The body crumbles, but the soul
Returns to God again--
To where the wondrous might of love
Is voiced in deathless song.
Have faith: its power will fit our boy
To join the angel throng.
And so, methinks, we should not mourn
Or question dispensation;
To know he did his duty well
Must be our consolation.
And while the months and years roll on
His memory let us cherish,
And ne'er forget our bright young friend
Till mind and mem'ry perish.