Doth a dead rider bear.
The gunners lie by their linstocks dead,
While deep on every brow,
In the bloody scroll of our island swords,
Is the tale of each horseman's dying words,
"Our memory is deathless now."
Staggering back goes a broken band,
With standards soiled and torn,
With gory saddles and reeling steeds,
And ranks that are swaying like surging reeds