And the patched dress that glory gives her sons,
Gather round their sire with mute surprise,
And list to tales of other days, when war,
With iron feet, swept thundering o’er the glade,
And reared his bloody altars on the hills.
And while they listen, lo! the soldier’s face
Grows less terrific, and his tatter’d dress
No longer seems to hide a vagrant’s form.
With stealthy look and silent step, they seek
The festive board, and silently return;