XII.

Red as the slaughter which their hands achieved, The British garb doth smite the foe with awe; And as our sturdy bowmen Creçy grieved O’er Gaul’s full-mailéd Knights triumphant saw, So the strong bayonet deals resistless law; And fly before that conflict hand to hand Of bone and muscle, ere a breath they draw, The sons of France, a wrongful Tyrant’s band, Who fight not heaven-inspired for Freedom in the land.