On Albuera’s plain;
They that beside us cheerily track’d the flying,
Far o’er the hills of Spain;
They that amidst us, when the shells were showering
From old Rodrigo’s wall,
The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering,
First, first at Victory’s call;
They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,
In Roncesvalles’ dell,
With England’s blood the southern vineyards laving—