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For works with similar titles, see The Soldier.


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He needs no tinsel on his coat,
No metal, star or braid;
No outward sign of rank or worth
To keep him unafraid.

The soldier carries in his breast
A living accolade—
The dear medallion of her face,
The noblest medal made!

Her faith, her hope, her tenderness,
Her human fear and pain
Are like the glory on his soul
To comfort and sustain.

In honor and in pride he goes
To face his duty grim;
Transplanted to himself, he feels
The heart that beats for him!