That luscious lip, the British Gyp,
I leave to rove, a reckless ranger,
To seek a life, with War for wife,
Defying Death, despising danger;
Yet while I speed from field to field,
Enamored of the stranger's daughter,
I know the best that earth can yield
Are nested by the British water.
Her lithe, blithe form outbraves the storm
That spreads disaster in its shadow,
And when it clears, her form appears
A flower upon the greening meadow;
And if, for fame, you'll have me name
The land of most bewitching daughters,
My heart replies, with softening sighs,
The land begirt by British waters.
Her starry eye lets arrows fly,
That pierce the ice of arctic reason;
The kiss that thrills, the glance that kills,
Make wild the wise and laugh at Treason;
And when, a soldier on parade,
Beyond the bourne of British waters,
My eyes are on the stranger maid,
My heart is with the English daughters.
DEATH SONG OF THE ENFANTS PERDUS.
'Tis here we invade the valley,
Away from the realms of breath,
And, in most successful sally,
We enter the gates of death;
So, stand in the last line steady,
'Tis here our true glory lies;
Hurrah for the dead already!
Three cheers for the next who dies!
Though here, the wet eyes of woman
Will fill with the falling tear,
Yet, facing old Death, our foeman,
We shout our reviving cheer.
Though high beat the hearts we cherish,
The dead we most highly prize:
Hurrah for the first to perish!
Three cheers for the next who dies!
The earth we now leave behind us,
The heavens now beckon before,
Though dust of the dead may blind us,
We march for the shining shore;
No more can our Hope deceive us,
Our heart to it now replies,
Hurrah for the first to leave us!
Three cheers for the next who dies!