 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
161
BATTLE-SONG OF THE POLISH LANCER.
To saddle, to saddle, with lances in rest!
By heel of the tyrant our greensward is pressed—
Yon Lord of the Balkan, while hurrying on
Long columns of footmen and hordes from the Don,
Dreams not that his laurels will wither to-day—
That a whirlwind of horsemen will crush his array!
Old Poland for ever!
By heel of the tyrant our greensward is pressed—
Yon Lord of the Balkan, while hurrying on
Long columns of footmen and hordes from the Don,
Dreams not that his laurels will wither to-day—
That a whirlwind of horsemen will crush his array!
Old Poland for ever!
Though muskets rain lead, and black cannon belch fire,
Beaten back by the shock, will the “Lancers retire?”
No!—an oath we have sealed, with the cross in our hands,
To charge! though our foemen outnumber the sands—
Aye, winged with the speed of a hurricane, ride
Through the ranks of the Czar, as a ship cleaves the tide.
Old Poland for ever!
Beaten back by the shock, will the “Lancers retire?”
No!—an oath we have sealed, with the cross in our hands,
To charge! though our foemen outnumber the sands—
Aye, winged with the speed of a hurricane, ride
Through the ranks of the Czar, as a ship cleaves the tide.
Old Poland for ever!
The war-note of Poland's “White Eagle” we hear!
He will scream soon a knell in the Muscovite's ear—
Our chargers, impatient, are pawing the ground—
They long, like their riders, for trumpet to sound!
Oh, when will the signal our bugleman blow,
To bear like a thunderbolt down on the foe!—
Old Poland for ever!
He will scream soon a knell in the Muscovite's ear—
Our chargers, impatient, are pawing the ground—
They long, like their riders, for trumpet to sound!
Oh, when will the signal our bugleman blow,
To bear like a thunderbolt down on the foe!—
Old Poland for ever!
While growl for red banquet these Bears of the North,
From Warsaw's bright turrets the lovely look forth;
Fair hands wrought the flag by our legion unrolled—
Bright eyes in the battle our deeds will behold:
Oh, who would not forth for his country to fight,
With the graves of her dead and her altars in sight!
Old Poland for ever!
From Warsaw's bright turrets the lovely look forth;
Fair hands wrought the flag by our legion unrolled—
Bright eyes in the battle our deeds will behold:
Oh, who would not forth for his country to fight,
With the graves of her dead and her altars in sight!
Old Poland for ever!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |