Blow the bugle! sound the trumpet!

Let the clarion's thrilling cry,

Borne upon the passing breezes,

Speak defiance far and nigh!

Let the ringing echoes wake

The stillness of the autumn day,

Where the little band of horsemen

Wait the signal for the fray!

Few they are, but every breast

Is swelling with a purpose high,

And a stern resolve is flushing

In the light of every eye

One the thought in every bosom,

One the dearest wish for all, —

If it may not be to conquer,

Yet for Britain's sake to fall!

Blow the bugle! ! sound the trumpet!

Let the glorious pennons wave,

Gaily floating in the sunlight

O'er the helmets of the brave

For, at last the word is given,

And, to battle for the right,

See the little band of horsemen

Riding onward to the fight!

Not to snatch an easy triumph.

Not to chase a flying foe,

Not to meet in equal conflict —

Man to man and blow to blow;

Not with any hope of bringing

Proudly back the victory

But when duty leads them onward,

They are riding forth to die!

For the path of honour lies

Across a long and rugged plain,

Where each onward stride is measured

By the fall of comrade slain.

See the dark and serried masses

Of the foeman far away,

And on either side the cannon

Grimly waiting for their prey!

Blow the bugle! sound the trumpet

Sound it with a solemn strain;

As the noble British horsemen

Ride across the furrowed plain

Twice three hundred light dragoons

In their pageant and their pride —

Tell me, who, of all that number,

Shall return at eventide?

None of all will play the craven.

None will rein his charger back,

As they press together onward

All along the deadly track.

Fewer still, but still advancing

Till they gain the fatal goal —

Fitting resting-place for heroes,

Where the martial thunders roll!

Oh! how sad, and yet how glorious!

Stretched beneath an eastern sky,

Parted not in direst peril,

Side by side the heroes lie.

Far away from lordly castle,

Far away from country home,

Severed each from many a loved one

By the leagues of ocean foam!

Weep, oh, weep not for the fallen,

Weep not for the young and brave

Doomed in all their grace and beauty

Thus to find a soldiers grave

For they died the death of heroes,

Died at duty's stern command,

Died for those they loved in Britain,

Fighting in a foreign land!

Say not, 'twas in vain their promise,

Say not that it was in vain —

All the precious life blood shed

So freely on that gory plain!

Come what may — to fail or conquer

They have nobly done their part.

And their deed of dauntless daring

Strengthens every failing heart.

Speak it not with stern rebuking

To the sordid love of self,

Shames it not their lofty hearing,

Schemes of pleasure or of pelf

Reads it not a lesson to

The lagging soldiers of the cross,

Bidding them to hear unshrinking

Pain and suffering and loss!

Yes, their lofty, proud devotion

Lives enshrined in many a heart,

Nerving many. a wavering spirit

To embrace the noble part,

And to fight life's battle bravely,

Till the sounds of discord cease,

And the strife of earthly passions

Fade before the reign of peace!