The land begirt by British waters.

Her starry eye lets arrows fly,
That pierce the ice of arctic reason;
The kiss that thrills, the glance that kills,
Make wild the wise and laugh at Treason;
And when, a soldier on parade,
Beyond the bourne of British waters,
My eyes are on the stranger maid,
My heart is with the English daughters.




DEATH SONG OF THE ENFANTS PERDUS.


'Tis here we invade the valley,
Away from the realms of breath,
And, in most successful sally,
We enter the gates of death;
So, stand in the last line steady,
'Tis here our true glory lies;
Hurrah for the dead already!
Three cheers for the next who dies!

Though here, the wet eyes of woman
Will fill with the falling tear,
Yet, facing old Death, our foeman,
We shout our reviving cheer.