With a Helmet on his Brow


With a Helmet on His Brow.

With a helmet on his brow,
And a sabre by his side,
The soldier mounts his gallant steed,
To conquer or to die.
His plume like the pendant stream,
In the wanton winter’s wind.
In the path of glory still,
A bright plume shall he find.

Bright as his own good sword,
A soldier’s fame must be,
As pure as the plume that sits above,
And his helmet white and free.
No fear in his breast must dwell,
Nor dread that shame may throw
A spot on his blade so bright.
And his helmet white as snow.

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