Let the lute or the lyre the soft stripling rejoice,
No music on earth is so sweet as thy voice.
Sound, sound the charge when the foe is before us,
When the visors are closed and the lances are down,
If we fall, let the banner of victory o'er us
Dance time to thy clarion that sings our renown:
To the souls of the valiant no requiem is given,
So fit as thine echoes, to soothe them in heaven.
LEON.