“Yes! his name will be written, in letters of gold,
On the crest of each sky-kissing mountain;
In music’s sweet measures his fame will be told,
By the murmur of streamlet and fountain;
It will haunt each green spot with its magical spell,
It will live in the song of each river,
In the bowers and aisles of each forest ’twill dwell,
Like a spirit of beauty, forever!
But come, comrades, come, let us back to the field,
’Tis there our duty still calls us,