Alas! the battle's lost and won

Alas! the battle's lost and won,
Dick Flint's born off the field
By death, from whom the stoutest run,
Who makes whole armies yield!
Dick well in honour's footsteps trod,
Brav'd war and its alarms,
Now death beneath the humble sod
Has grounded his arms!

Dick's march'd before us, on a rout
Where ev'ry soldiers sent,
His fire is dead, his courage out,
His ammunition spent:
His form so active's now a clod,
His grace no longer charms,
For death beneath the humble sod
Has grounded his arms!

Come fire a volley o'er his grave,
Dead marches let us beat;
War's honours well become the brave,
Who found their last retreat.
All must obey fate's awful nod
Whom life this moment warms,
Death, soon or late, beneath the sod
Will ground the soldier's arms!