CLASH, clash goes the sabre against my steed’s side,
Kling, kling go the rowels as onward I ride;
And all my bright harness is living and speaks,
And under my horse-shoe the frosty ground creaks;
I wave my buff glove to the girl whom I love,
Then join my dark squadron, and forward I move.

The foe all secure, has laid down by his gun;
I’ll open his eyelids before the bright sun;
I burst on his pickets–they scatter, they fly;
Too late they awaken–’tis only to die.
Now the torch to their camp; I’ll make it a lamp,
As back to my quarters so slowly I tramp.

Kiss, kiss me my darling; your lover is here,
Nay, kiss off the smoke-stains; keep back that bright tear;
Keep back that bright tear till the day when I come,
To the low wailing fife and deep muffled drum,
With a bullet half through the bosom so true,
To die, as I ought for my country and you.

GEORGE H. BORER.