Foiled on the field with his dead boys around him,
All waiting for Earth to recover her own,
Fortune hath missed him, but Glory hath found him,
While fighting a thousand fierce foemen alone.
Custer's the right wing, the left and the center,
Himself is his only reserve and supply.
This is a battle for Spartans to enter,
Where One makes an army to conquer or die.
Straight on his steed doth he meet the grim battle,
The red line of danger grows deadly and large,
Loud from the hills rings the rifleman's rattle,
But Custer is ready, so forward and charge!
Firing with left hand, and fencing with right,
The reins in his teeth, like a handless young Hun,
What is his fate in the terrible fight?
The thousands hath slain him, yet Custer hath won.
His foemen still seek him in terror and wonder,
Alive in the tempest that darkens the vale;
His charge they still fear in the echoing thunder,
His sword in the lightning, his voice in the gale.