In the shameful days in sixty-three,
When the city fluttered in abject fear,
'Neath the mob's rude grasp, who ever thought--
"God! if the Seventh were only here!"
Our drums were heard--the ruffian crew
Grew tired of riot the self-same day--
By chance of course--you don't suppose
They feared the dandies in black and gray!

So we dance and flirt in our listless style
While the waltzes dream in the drill-room arch,
What would we do if the order came,
Sudden and sharp--"Let the Seventh march!"
Why, we'd faint, of course; our cheeks would pale;
Our knees would tremble, our fears--but stay,
That order I think has come ere this
To those holiday troops in black and gray.

"What would we do!" We'd drown our drums
In a storm of cheers, and the drill-room floor
Would ring with rifles. Why, you fools,
We'd do as we've always done before!
Do our duty! Take what comes
With laugh and jest, be it feast or fray--
But we're dandies--yes, for we'd rather die
Than sully the pride of our black and gray.