If death could have dyed them red.
The man that bore it, with death has lain
These thirty years or more—
He died that the work should not be vain
Of the men who bore it before.
The man that bears it is bent and old,
And ragged his beard and gray;
But see his proud form grow young and bold,
At the tune that he hears them play.
The old tune thunders through all the air,