He was a soldier in that fight
⁠Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
⁠The stealthy foemen come.

Year in, year out, by day and night
⁠They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
⁠No fife was blown, and no drum beat.

In winter fog, in gathering mist
⁠The gray grim battle had its end—
And at the very last we knew
⁠His enemy had turned his friend.