'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
MEN OF ENGLAND
Men of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:
Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sidney's matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story,
Worth a thousand Agincourts!
We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny:
They defied the field and scaffold,
For their birthright—so will we.