And each his ardor scarce restrains;
Proud of the part they’re chosen for:
The mighty cyclone of the war,
In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.
’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:
How mortals their opinions prize
When armies march to sacrifice,
And souls by thousands in the fight
On Battle’s smoky wing take flight.
Firm-paced they come, in solid form