The Two Villages Over the river, on the hill, Lieth a village white and still; Of soaring hawk and screaming crow, Over the river, under the hill, There I see in the cloudy night Twinkling stars of household light, Fires that gleam from the smithy's door, And in the roads no grasses grow, In that village on the hill Never is sound of smithy or mill; The houses are thatched with grass and flowers; Never a clock to toll the hours; The marble doors are always shut, You cannot enter in hall or hut; All the villagers lie asleep; Never a grain to sow or reap; Silent and idle and low they lie. In that village under the hill, Carmen Bellicosum In their ragged regimentals, Yielding not, While the grenadiers were lunging, Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles, From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn; And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer Through the morn! Then with eyes to the front all, Stood our sires; While the balls whistled deadly, Blazed the fires: As the roar On the shore Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain! Now like smiths at their forges Cannoneers, And the villainous saltpetre Rang a fierce, discordant metre As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the bare-headed Colonel And his broadsword was swinging, Trumpet-loud; Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six pounder, Hurling death! The Thousand and Thirty-Seven Three years ago, to-day, We raised our hands to Heaven, Our names were thirty-seven; As we took our oath of service With our right hands raised to Heaven. Oh, 't was a gallant day, In memory still adored. That day of our sun-bright nuptials Of the thousand stalwart bayonets And envy the deep, calm, blessed sleep Of the battle-field's holy ground. |