Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/257



, boot into the stirrup, lads, And hand once more on rein; Up, up into the saddle, lads, A-field we ride again: One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear, No leisure now to sigh, God bless them all—we have their prayers, And they our hearts—"Good-bye!" Off, off we ride, in reckless pride, As gallant troopers may, Who have old scores to settle, and Long slashing swords to pay.

The trumpet calls—"trot out, trot out,"— We cheer the stirring sound; Swords forth, my lads—through smoke and dust We thunder o'er the ground. Tramp, tramp, we go through sulphury clouds, That blind us while we sing,—