On, with your fierce burst onward! 
On, sweep the foe before,
Till the great sea-hold’s volleys
Roll through the ghastly roar! 
Till your resistless onset
The mighty fortress know,
And storm-won fort and rampart
Your conquering standards show.

Yes—­clash, ye bells, in triumph! 
Yes—­roar, ye cannon, roar! 
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more. 
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma’s reddened waters,
And the Euxine’s dashing waves.

For thee, thou weeping mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears;
No—­but with pride we name them,
For grief their memory wrongs;
Our proudest thoughts shall claim them,
And our exalting songs.

Heights of the rocky Alma,
The flags that scaled you bore
“Plassey,” “Quebec,” and “Blenheim,”
And many a triumph more;
And they shall show your glory
Till men shall silent be,
Of Waterloo and Maida
Moultan and Meanee.

I look; another glory
Methinks they give to fame;
By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor
Streams out another name;
From captured fleet and city,
And fort, the thick clouds roll,
And on the flags above them
Is writ “Sebastopol.”

THE MAMELUKE CHARGE.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

Let the Arab courser go
Headlong on the silent foe;
Their plumes may shine like mountain snow,
Like fire their iron tubes may glow,
Their cannon death on death may throw,
Their pomp, their pride, their strength, we know,
But—­let the Arab courser go.

                The Arab horse is free and bold,
                His blood is noble from of old,
                Through dams, and sires, many a one,
                Up to the steed of Solomon. 
                He needs no spur to rouse his ire,
                His limbs of beauty never tire,
                Then, give the Arab horse the rein,
                And their dark squares will close in vain. 
                Though loud the death-shot peal, and louder,
                He will only neigh the prouder;
                Though nigh the death-flash glare, and nigher,
                He will face the storm of fire;
                He will leap the mound of slain,
                Only let him have the rein.

The Arab horse will not shrink back, Though death confront him in his track, The Arab horse will not shrink back, And shall his rider’s arm be slack?  No!—­By the God who gave us life, Our souls are ready for the strife.  We need no serried lines, to show A gallant bearing to the foe.  We need no trumpet to awake The thirst, which blood alone can slake.  What is it that can stop our course, Free riders of the Arab horse?