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SOLDIER SONGS
They ride till the crickets have sought the shade;
They ride till the sun-motes glance; And they have espied on a far hillside
The whirl of the Sioux scalp-dance.
Then it's up past the smouldering stage-house barn
And out by the well-curb's marge; The Sioux are a-leap for the tether-ropes: —
"Revolvers! Guide centre! Charge!"
The Sioux, they flee like a wild wolf-pack
At the flick of the shot-tossed sod, Six braves have lurched to the fore fetlocks
And two of the Sergeant's squad.
But Ross has tightened his sabre-belt
And given the roan his head, And set his pace for a single chase,
A furlong's length ahead.
He has set his pace for the chief, Black Bear, Who shrinks from a strong man's strife
But flaunts in the air the long, brown hair Of the scalp of the Corporal's wife.
The eight, they follow like swirled snow-spume,
A-drive o'er an ice-bound bar, But the redskin's track is the dim cloud-wrack
That streams in the sky afar.
They ride till the hearts of their steeds are dead And they gallop with lolling tongues,
And the tramp of their feet is a rhythmic beat To the sob of their panting lungs.
And two are down in a prairie draw
And three on a chalk-stone ledge, And three have won to the Bon Homme Run
And stuck in the marsh-land sedge. |
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