  By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. O Our good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman’s fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle! Halt! Dash on beneath the smoking dome; Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. Charge! Cling! clang! forward all, Heaven help those whose horses fall! Cut left and right! They flee before our fierce attack! They fall! they spread in broken surges! Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. Wheel! The bugles sound the swift recall; Cling! clang! backward all! Home, and good-night! Banner Banner
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