Far, far from the pride of thy father shall set thee,
And curse thee from out of her innermost heart.
Begone! Be it ours to atone for thy meekness,
With ev’ry revenge that a victor may deal;
Each sign of submission, each token of weakness,
Shall hasten our footsteps and sharpen our steel.
We’ll charge where the thickest the foe is deploying,
And lose in the battle the thought of thy name;
We’ll seek where the Angel of Death is destroying,
And gather new laurels to cover thy shame.