 | Poems of the war |  |
140
LANCER'S SONG.
A sigh to the lips that we love from the heart,
A scowl to the foe that is moving before us;
Then mount, slacken reins, and spur hard for the start,
With our pennons blown out, and our spears slanted o'er us!
A scowl to the foe that is moving before us;
Then mount, slacken reins, and spur hard for the start,
With our pennons blown out, and our spears slanted o'er us!
Who feels not his spirit mount up for this deed
Is a wretch,—in the soul of our souls we abhor him;
May he fall, like a dog, in the path of his steed,
And our close trampling hoofs in a torrent sweep o'er him!
Is a wretch,—in the soul of our souls we abhor him;
May he fall, like a dog, in the path of his steed,
And our close trampling hoofs in a torrent sweep o'er him!
141
But who for his country shall fall on the field,
O God, take his soul, if thou wilt not restore him;
Make thy presence around him his comfort and shield,
And gather thy angels, and spread their wings o'er him!
O God, take his soul, if thou wilt not restore him;
Make thy presence around him his comfort and shield,
And gather thy angels, and spread their wings o'er him!
We have sighed our last sigh, we have prayed our last prayer:
O country, the best of the life that's before us
We give thee ungrudging, in hope, not despair;
And we ask but thy tear when the volley rings o'er us.
O country, the best of the life that's before us
We give thee ungrudging, in hope, not despair;
And we ask but thy tear when the volley rings o'er us.
| Poems of the war | |