A steed! a steed! of matchless speed!
A sword of metal keen!
All else to noble hearts is dross—
All else on earth is mean.
The neighing of the war-horse proud,
The rolling of the drum,
The clangor of the trumpet loud
Be sounds from heaven that come.
And, oh! the thundering press of knights,
When as their war-cries swell,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rouse a fiend from hell.
Then mount! then mount! brave gallants all,
And don your helms amain;
Death's couriers, Fame and Honour, call
Up to the field again;
No shrewish tear shall fill our eye
When the sword hilt's in our hand;
Heart-whole we'll part and no whit sigh
For the fairest of the land.
Let piping swain and craven wight,
Thus weep and puling aye;
Our business is like men to fight
And like to Heroes, die