Fair as an angel, tender and true,
Is he who measures his might with you;
Oft he has lost, in times long gone,
But ever the terrible game goes on.
But where are the chessmen to be found?—
Where the picket paces his dangerous round;
Where the general sits, with chart and map;
Where the scout is scrawling his hurried scrap.
Where the Cabinet weigh the chances dread;
Where the soldier sleeps with the stars o'erhead;