Classic Poem

To horse with you, comrades; saddle and mount!
To the battlefield's freedom away!
To the field where a hero is still of account,
And the valorous still has his day.
On nobody else can a man rely,
He must trust to himself to do or die.

From the world true freedom has disappeared,
But masters and slaves remain.
With guile and deceit it is domineered
By men of inferior strain.
Who looks death straight in the face, is free—
The warrior bold—and none but he!

The troubles of life he hurls aside;
By fears and cares unvexed,
Right on his fate content to ride,
If not one day, on the next;
And if on the next—why, the present employ,
And what remains of our time enjoy.

His lot by heaven is gilded with mirth,
He need not struggle and toil;
The servitor probes in the bowels of earth
And labours in search of spoil.
He shovels, as long as he lives, for pelf,
And ends by digging a grave for himself.

The trooper and his redoubtable horse
A terrible glamour invests.
While the wedding banquet pursues its course,
They come as unbidden guests.
His wooing is short, not with gold he charms,
But his love he imposes by force of arms.

Why is the maiden so pale and sad?
No questions! Let it pass!
No regular home has he ever had
For the love of an honest lass.
His wandering lot gives no repose,
And his heart is intact wheresoever he goes.

Then, boot and saddle, my hearties! Come,
Your breasts to the battle square
While your youthful forces bubble and hum
And the fighting spirit is there!
Think not to compass a good old age,
Long life is none of your heritage.