Spurs jingle and lances shine;
A hundred brave horsemen in line;
Gay voices ring as they merrily sing,
For why should true hearts repine?
The pathway is level and balmy the air,
Their bosoms unruffled by shadow of care;
The sun has but reached its meridian height,
“Twenty versts farther on we shall slumber to-night.”
When, crash! from the thickets that border the way,
Bursts a hail-storm of bullets in death-dealing spray;
In front a wall rises of turban-crowned foes,
And half of the sotnia fall ’neath their blows.
But still with teeth set, and a joyous hurrah,
With lances at rest and a cheer for the Czar,
Charge fifty brave horsemen in line!
Oh, fatal the rifle’s crack!
Ten heroes fight back to back,
And each lance-thrust brings down in the dust
A wolf from the howling pack.
How the yelping curs in myriads swarm!
Ten new foes rise from each prostrate form,
They drop from the trees, they spring from the ground,
Till a blaze of scimetars flashes around.
The ten are scattered; they seem to be
Like derelict spars in an angry sea.
But never a Cossack was known to yield
While his arm a lance or sabre could wield.
Oh, weep their valor by distant Don,
The waves are engulphing them one by one!
But two remain back to back!
His comrade sinks down with a groan—
Black Loris is fighting alone,
His eyeballs glazed and his senses dazed,
And his arms as heavy as stone.
“Surrender!” a hundred harsh voices demand,
For answer he sabres the chief of the band.
But his arm is shivered in twain—he feels
The earth swim round him—he gasps, he reels,
And gleam on his vision old scenes afar,
As he gasps in a dream a last cheer for the Czar—
Was it echo, that sonorous answering peal?
No, no! there’s a rattle of hoof and of steel!
Black Loris is not alone!
No tears for the ninety-nine,
The nation’s heart is their shrine;
But glory’s bays and the Emperor’s praise
For the one man left of the line!
The Don’s deep waters will long be dried,
And stemmed the flow of the Ural’s tide,
The strength and glory of Russia depart,
And the Cossack know cowardice reign in his heart,
Ere the Muscovite legions shall cease to tell
Of dashing Loris who fought so well,
Whose comrades tore him from out the grave,
Whose medal the Emperor’s own hands gave.
And for years to come, when trotting along
Ural and Don, men will sing this song—
“The One and the Ninety-Nine!”