The rocks on the shore are full
Of Arnauts, thirsty for our slaughter.
But we fly swifter than their bullets go.
They cannot take aim, so swift we row.
Pull! my hawks, pull!
Long before their slow feet can return
We will fall upon their village—sack and burn,
Tear up the smoking rafters of their homesteads
Into torches that shall light our homeward way,
Laden with rich spoil and foemen's heads.