Platoon by platoon in formation proudly,
Plane upon plane from the valley’s mouth,
Piercing, with their black-winged squadrons
In powerful flight, the dark hill.
To the wild pipe’s bidding
Last night they danced reel and jig,
Glad for the light in each other’s eyes;
To the wild pipe’s bidding
They have sprung at the unknown shadows of the North.
In what lowering mountain range
Will they make their stand and fight,
And which strange-named stream shall be their bed,
Lying quietly together, strong in death?
Today some silent valley of Tunisia
Shall tremble at their stroke from sky unsheathed,
And, with the night, perhaps some God looking down
With dull, cold eyes, by the near stars, will see
One lonely, grim battalion cut its way
Through agony and death to fame’s high crown,
And wonderingly watch the friendless strength
Of little men, who die that the great Truths shall live.