Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/258

 Woe worth the knave who follows not The banner of the King; But luck befall each trooper tall, That cleaves to saddle-tree, Whose long sword carves on rebel sconce, The rights of Majesty.

Spur on, my lads; the trumpet sounds Its last and stern command— "A charge! a charge!"—an ocean burst Upon a stormy strand. Ha! ha! how thickly on our casques Their pop-guns rattle shot; Spur on, my lads, we'll give it them As sharply as we've got. Now for it:—now, bend to the work— Their lines begin to shake; Now, through and through them—bloody lanes Our flashing sabres make!

"Cut one—cut two—first point," and then We'll parry as we may; On, on the knaves, and give them steel In bellyfuls to-day.