Wake, soldier, wake, thy war-horse waits To bear thee to the battle back; Thou slumberest at a foemans gates, Thy dog would break thy bivouac; Thy plume is trailing in the dust And thy red falchion gathering rust.
Gayly we glide in the gaze of the world With streamers afloat and with canvas unfurled, All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with sighs.