The British Stripling’s War-Song

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,

       &nbspSince you told of the deeds which our countrymen wrought;

O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,

       &nbspAnd I too will fight as my forefathers fought.



Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd,

       &nbspAnd I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand;

Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field,

       &nbspAnd as proudly would die for my dear native land.



In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight,

       &nbspThe sound of a trumpet suspended my breath;

And my fancy still wander'd by day and by night,

       &nbspAmid battle and tumult, 'mid conquest and death.



My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance,

       &nbspHow oft it awakes me from visions of glory;

When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France,

       &nbspAnd have dash'd him to earth, pale and breathless and gory.



As late thro' the city with banners all streaming

       &nbspTo the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by,

With helmet and scimitars naked and gleaming,

       &nbspOn their proud-trampling, thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly;



I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare,

       &nbspFor each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm;

And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air,

       &nbspAnd in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.



Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,

       &nbspSince you told of the deeds that our countrymen wrought;

O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,

       &nbspAnd I too will fight as my forefathers fought!