  A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed, A sword of metal keene! All else to noble hearts is drosse, All else on earth is meane. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war-cryes swell, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine: Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand,— Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land. Let piping swaine and craven wight Thus weepe and puling crye; Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die! William Motherwell. |
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