  WITH bray of the trumpet Tramp! tramp! o’er the greensward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb bit The fierce horses go! And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons The order: “Trot out!” One hand on the saber, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain. The steel scabbards clank; As each rowel is pressed To a horse’s hot flank; And swift is their rush And the wild torrents flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below. “Charge!” thunders the leader; Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe. A thousand bright sabers Are gleaming in air; A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square. Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals The wild troopers ride. Cut right! and cut left! For the parry who needs? The bayonets shiver Like wind-scattered reeds. Vain—vain the red volley That bursts from the square, Are wasted in air. Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,— No saber that’s stainless Returns to its sheath. The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeon to heal. Hurrah! they are broken— Hurrah! boys, they fly! None linger save those Who but linger to die. Rein up your hot horses And call in your men,— The trumpet sounds, “Rally To colors!” again. Some saddles are empty, Some comrades are slain And some noble horses Lie stark on the plain: But war’s a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain. Francis A. Durivage. |
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