With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash’d to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!
The field—but not of sheaves—
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o’er it thick as the birch-wood leaves
In the autumn tempest’s way.
Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view’d
When the Austrian turn’d to fly,