  All the merry kettle-drums are thudding into rhyme, Dust is swimming dizzily down the village street, The scabbards are clattering, the feathers nodding time, To a clink of many horses’ shoes, a tramp of many feet. Seven score of Cavaliers fighting for the King, Trolling lusty stirrup-songs, clamouring for wine, Riding with a loose rein, marching with a swing, Beneath the blue bannerol of Rupert of the Rhine. Hey the merry company;—the loud fifes playing— Blue scarves and bright steel and blossom of the may, A king’s son ahead of them showing them the way. |
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