IN Collins Street standeth a statute tall,

A statue tall, on a pillar of stone,

Telling its story, to great and small,

Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone;

Weary and wasted, and worn and wan,

Feeble and faint, and languid and low,

He lay on the desert a dying man;

Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.

There are perils by land, and perils by water,

Short, I ween, are the obsequies

Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter

With the mariner lost in the trackless seas;

And well for him, when the timbers start,

And the stout ship reels and settles below,

Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart,

As that dead man gone where we all must go.

Man is stubborn his rights to yield,

And redder than dews at eventide

Are the dews of battle, shed on the field,

By a nation’s wrath or a despot’s pride;

But few who have heard their death-knell roll,

From the cannon’s lips where they faced the foe,

Have fallen as stout and steady of soul,

As that dead man gone where we all must go.

Traverse yon spacious burial ground,

Many are sleeping soundly there,

Who pass’d with mourners standing around,

Kindred, and friends, and children fair;

Did he envy such ending? ’twere hard to say;

Had he cause to envy such ending? no;

Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay,

When it once has gone where we all must go?

What matters the sand or the whitening chalk,

The blighted herbage, the black’ning log,

The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,

Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?

That couch was rugged, those sextons rude,

Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know

That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms’ food,

When once they’ve gone where we all must go.

With the pistol clenched in his failing hand,

With the death mist spread o’er his fading eyes,

He saw the sun go down on the sand,

And he slept, and never saw it rise;

’Twas well; he toil’d till his task was done,

Constant and calm in his latest throe,

The storm was weathered, the battle was won,

When he went, my friends, where we all must go.

God grant that whenever, soon or late,

Our course is run and our goal is reach’d,

We may meet our fate as steady and straight

As he whose bones in yon desert bleach’d;

No tears are needed—our cheeks are dry,

We have none to waste upon living woe;

Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh,

Having gone, my friends, where we all must go?

We tarry yet, we are toiling still,

He is gone and he fares the best,

He fought against odds, he struggled up hill,

He has fairly earned his season of rest;

No tears are needed—fill our the wine,

Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow,

Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine,

To a brave man gone where we all must go.

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Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus

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Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: Poem On Pastoral Poetry : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On Glenriddell’s Fox Breaking His Chain: A Fragment by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Posie : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi’ An Auld Man: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Charms Of Lovely Davies: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram On Miss Davies: On being asked why she had been formed so little, and Mrs. A-so big. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Bonie Wee Thing: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Craigieburn Wood: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart: With The Lament On The Death Of the Earl Of Glencairn by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Banks O’ Doon: Third Version by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Banks O’ Doon: Second Version by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Banks O’ Doon: First Version by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Out Over The Forth: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: There’ll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Elegy On The Late Miss Burnet Of Monboddo : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child: Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Tam O’ Shanter: A Tale by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Verses On Captain Grose: Written on an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Him. by Robert Burns

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