And the faith of the lads—"Our luck'll
Come back when the Spring winds ride;"
And, dropping their quaint oaths drolly,
They dragged their spurs in the mire,
Till the Western Front woke slowly
And they won to their hearts' desire.
They loose you now to the labours
That the needs of the hour reveal,
And you carry the proud old sabres
To cross with a tarnished steel;