Florence Nightingale.
[Music may be had of Messrs. D'Almaine, London.]
A prayer for Florence Nightingale, and the goodly little band
Of tender hearts, who, mercy-bound, have left their native land,
To nurse our suffering heroes, who have nobly fought and bled—
To soothe them in their hour of pain, and tend the sick man's bed.
Oh, woman! gentle woman! thy high mission is to bless,
Alike when we are happy, or when sunk in deep distress,
This act of self-devotion should make, and so it will,
Woman, to every manly heart, more dear and cherish'd still.
It needs no stimulus, we know, to make our brave men fight;
It is enough they are at war for Freedom, Truth, and Right;
But yet methinks, 'twill nerve each arm, and make each heart beat high,
To think, if they are wounded, there are English nurses nigh!
Then, bless thee! Florence Nightingale—thou true and gentle maid.
And all who in pure loyalty shall lend to thee their aid.
And when no longer shall be heard the angry cannon's roar,
We'll welcome thee, with grateful hearts, to England's happy shore.
