Rode on the enemy’s track,
Rode in the grey of the morning:
Nine of the ninety came back.
Slow rose the mist from the river,
Lighter each moment the way;
Careless and tearless and fearless
Galloped they on to the fray.
Singing in tune, how the scabbard
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang,
Clinked as the men rose in saddle,