The Cavalier’s Song

William Motherwell (1797–1835)

A STEED! a steed of matchlesse speed,

A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,

All else on earth is meane.

The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,

The rowlinge of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come;

And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,

Whenas their war-cryes swell,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,

And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,

And don your helmes amaine;

Deathe’s couriers, fame and honor, call

Us to the field againe.

No shrewish feares shall fill our eye

When the sword-hilt ’s in our hand—

Heart-whole we ’ll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and puling crye;

Our business is like men to fight,

And hero-like to die!