And thou, bright shining Glory, now setting in heaven.
Farewell to our hearthstones, our cherished ones there,
Our wives and our children, now reft of our care:
Farewell, everloved of our souls—nevermore,
Shall we look on your faces—our lifetime is o'er.
We march to the field—'twill be red with our blood,
Which shall make of its soil there a horrible mud;
Where our bones by wild beasts on the desolate plain,
Shall be torn, and be whiten'd by tempest and rain.
We march to the field—and our comrades in war,