THE DEAD CHARGER. 21 



died away in the glen than I was called upon, and 

 gave 



THE DEAD CHAKGER. 



Fai'ewell my good steed ! thy long service is o'er ; 

 Thou wilt bear me in war and in pastime no more : 

 No more thou 'It be cheer'd by the sound of my voice ; 

 No more in thy speed shall my spirit rejoice ! 

 Stiff, stiff are those limbs, which in life used to fly 

 Like a storm-driven rack through the hurricane sky, 

 And cold is that ardour, so generous and true, 

 Which age could not weaken nor labour subdue. 



In the pride of thy strength thou hast borne me along, 

 And hast shared in the risk of the battle's hot throng. 

 Where the arrows have whirred and the bullets have showered. 

 But thine eye never quailed, and thine ear never cowered. 

 Thou hast seen the fierce Khalsa's sharp murder-stained spear ; 

 Thou hast heard the "hurrah" of our headlong career. 

 And hast witnessed, when on them our vengeance was wreaked, 

 How the desperate have striven, and the timid have shrieked. 



We have gone through strange scenes, my lost steed, I and thou, 



And thy valour hath saved me from peril ere now ; 



I have shared with thee oft my scant morsel of bread, 



And lain by thy side on the same chilly bed ; 



('Twas the fortune of war). And in mischievous whim 



I've had cause to exult in thy fleetness of limb ; 



For thou'st borne me right well through morass and through wood. 



And gallantly breasted both upland and flood. 



