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On hill and in hollow, green holm, and broad meadow,
We have sought for these loved things, but never could find them,
We have shouted their names, and sad echoes made answer.
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.
The Ritters Ride Home.
As eagles return to their eyrie,
Gorged with the flesh of the young kid,
Even so we return from the battle—
The banquet of noble blood.
We are drunk with that ruddy wine;
We are stained with its droppings all over;
We have drunk till our full veins are bursting,
Till the vessel was drained to its dregs—
Till the tall flaggons fell from our hands,
That were wearied with ever uplifting them:
We have drank till we no longer could find
The liquor divine of heroes.
The Ritters ride home!
