With the shrapnel-barrage leading
To the prey of our desire—
To the men who rose to meet us from the blood-soaked battle-mire;
Met them; gave and asked no quarter;
But, where we saw the Gray,
Plunged the edged steel of slaughter,
Stabbed home, and wrenched away....
Till red wrists tired of killing-work, and none were left to slay.
Now—while his fresh battalions
Moved up to the attack—