Arthur Weir (1864–1902)

SWIFT troopers twain ride side by side

Throughout life’s long campaign.

They make a jest of all man’s pride,

And oh, the havoc! As they ride

They cannot count their slain.

The one is young and debonair,

And laughing swings his blade!

The Zephyrs toss his golden hair,

His eyes are blue; he is so fair

He seems a masking maid.

The other is a warrior grim,

Dark as a midnight storm;

There is no man can cope with him,

We shrink and tremble in each limb

Before his awful form.

Yet though men fear the sombre foe

More than the gold-tressed youth,

The boy with every careless blow

More than the trooper grim lays low,

And causes earth more ruth.

Keener his mocking sword doth prove

Than flame or winter’s breath:

Men bear his wounds to the realm above,

For the little trooper’s name is Love,

His comrade ’s only Death.