Low burn the beacon fires along the shore;
The drowsy watch dreams of his Norman home,
And dusky warriors sleep, and deem their toils are o'er.
Beneath the raven wing of sable night,
A little band, with martial fire aglow,
Sweeps down, while he who nobly leads them on
Chides every tardy hour that parts him from the foe.
Not glory's star allures that dauntless breast,
Nor lust of conquest fires that eagle eye;
For hearth and home, for King and Crown, his brand