With their pikes and massy clubs, they brake
The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake,
From the reapers of the field!
The field—but not of sheaves—
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o'er it thick as the beech-wood leaves,
In the Autumn tempest's way.
Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havock view’d
When the Austrian turn'd to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die!
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm'd was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.
But the sons of the land which the free-man tills,
Went back from the battle-toil,
To their cabin home, midst the deep green hills,
All burden'd with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprung to greet their sires
From the wild Morgarten fight.
