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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.
