Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Soldier to his Plume
THE SOLDIER TO HIS PLUME.
Before we go, I've a word to say To thee, my own white feather,And then, my plume, we're up and away To the battle-field together!
I charge thee never to show thy head Where the feet of a coward bore thee:Thou must sooner droop, as the blood is shed From the breast of him who wore thee.
Go up, and nod in the open van, With dangers gathering round thee;That the foe may see 'tis the foremost man, Who in his helm has bound thee.
'Mid the din of arms, where the dust and smoke In clouds are curling o'er thee,Be firm, till the enemy's ranks are broke, And they fall, or flee before thee.
Yet, I would not have thee towering stand O'er him, who's for mercy crying;But, bow to the earth, as thy master's hand Shall raise the faint and the dying.
'T is thus we both may escape from shame, And come from the field with glory;And thou shalt be fixed to thy wearer's name, If ever 'tis seen in story!