As he pours the melting lay.
They feed him high, and they lodge him well,
And rich is his golden fee;
But his hand ne’er did feel the gauntlet of steel—
What profit, what profit is he?
“But the softest pillow the Warrior hath
Is the boss of his battered shield,
Where the firebrand’s light, thro’ the murky night,
Glares red on the foughten field.
The wares he loves are of good hard steel,