XIX.

Joy! joy! the battle to the Frenchward side Is proudly borne, and pass Kempt’s rifles keen O’er Bidasoa’s stream, where swift they glide, In modest garments all of darkest green-- A hue for special service chos’n, I ween, For England loves the daring and the frank. In brightest red her columns robed are seen, A mark inviting like the target’s blank; And fair her mind is spoke, and fair her battle’s rank!