When at Freeke’s Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red,
And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!
“O Stirling, good Stirling! how long must we wait?
Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?
Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,
With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?
Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,
When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?”
Tralara! Tralara! Now praise we the Lord
For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!