They leave him to struggle as well as he may
From the shore to the camp after leaving the bay.
Sustained by the pluck that he shows in the field,
He is sure to come through, for he never will yield;
And though nearly worn-out, weary, hungry, and wet,
The High Mettled Guardsman has life in him yet.
Exposed to the cold, and turned out in the mud,
Still ready to shed for his country his blood;
While knowing officials—the precedents trace,
Of what are the ancient traditions of place.