With bray of the trumpet
And roll of the drum,
And keen ring of bugle,
The cavalry come.
Sharp clank the steel scabbards,
The bridle-chains ring,
And foam from red nostrils
The wild chargers fling.
Tramp! tramp! o’er the greensward
That quivers below,
Scarce held by the curb-bit
The fierce horses go!
And the grim-visaged colonel,
With ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons
The order: “_Trot out!_”
One hand on the sabre,
And one on the rein,
The troopers move forward
In line on the plain.
As rings the word “_Gallop!_”
The steel scabbards clank,
And each rowel is pressed
To a horse’s hot flank:
And swift is their rush
As the wild torrent’s flow,
When it pours from the crag
On the valley below.
“_Charge!_” thunders the leader:
Like shaft from the bow
Each mad horse is hurled
On the wavering foe.
A thousand bright sabres
Are gleaming in air:
A thousand dark horses
Are dashed on the square.
Resistless and reckless
Of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals,
The wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left!--
For the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver
Like wind-scattered reeds.
Vain--vain the red volley
That bursts from the square,--
The random-shot bullets
Are wasted in air.
Triumphant, remorseless,
Unerring as death,--
No sabre that’s stainless
Returns to its sheath.
The wounds that are dealt
By that murderous steel
Will never yield case
For the surgeon to heal.
Hurrah! they are broken--
Hurrah! boys, they fly!
None linger save those
Who but linger to die.
Rein up your hot horses
And call in your men,--
The trumpet sounds “_Rally_
_To colors!_” again.
Some saddles are empty,
Some comrades are slain,
And some noble horses
Lie stark on the plain;
But war’s a chance game, boys,
And weeping is vain.
[Illustration]