98
BALLADS OF BATTLE
Grandsire, whom I have never seen, nor held whose hand,
Nor heard whose voice—stentorian in command—
From some Valhalla of the British dead
Perchance thou watchest where our lines are spread:
Strengthen my hand; thy kinsman's heart inspire
With some spark of thy ancient martial fire—
May my steel be as keen, I pray,
As yours, a Hundred Years to-day!
Nor heard whose voice—stentorian in command—
From some Valhalla of the British dead
Perchance thou watchest where our lines are spread:
Strengthen my hand; thy kinsman's heart inspire
With some spark of thy ancient martial fire—
May my steel be as keen, I pray,
As yours, a Hundred Years to-day!
Oft as a boy I strove to swing thy blade
From out the scabbard where it long had laid,
And fearful felt its edge—the notch, 'twas said,
Was compliment from a dead Chasseur's head—
And all day waged the mimic fight,
Waiting for Blucher—and nurse!—and night:
From out the scabbard where it long had laid,
And fearful felt its edge—the notch, 'twas said,
Was compliment from a dead Chasseur's head—
And all day waged the mimic fight,
Waiting for Blucher—and nurse!—and night:
