Have not my own hands caress'd thee?
Proudly in gay trappings dress'd thee?
Yet thou com'st not as of old,
Champing at thy curb of gold.

Hast thou not, in bright hues glowing,
Silken shabrack downward flowing,
Silver hoof and broidered rein.
Gemm'd with trophies from the slain?

And the horse, he answered sadly—
Stamp I with the hoof so madly?
Tramp of steed I hear afar,
Trumpet clang and din of war.

But soon a stranger will bestride me,
Other hand than thine will guide me,
Never more by thee caress'd,
Or proudly in gay trappings dress'd.

See, the foe, with fury glowing,
Rends my glittering shabrack flowing,
Curb of gold and broidered rein
Fiercely does he cleave in twain.

And my stately neck is drooping,
'Neath a fearful burthen stooping—
There a dead man lies supine,
Cold as ice—the Form is thine!