Classic Poem

Boot , 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,—
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.
Hurrah! hurrah! for Church and State,
For Country and for Crown,
We slash away, and right and left
Hew rogues and rebels down.
Another cheer! the field is clear,
The day is all our own;
Done like our sires,—done like the swords
God gives to guard the Throne!