The Eve Of Battle

We're a score of men together To drink to the days of yore, To the little joys and sorrows That were our lives before. We're a nobler lot to live for; We're a prouder death to dare: Yet once, for we fight to-morrow, A glass to the days that were! To the things that we loved so dearly In the careless days gone by; To the beat of hoofs at the hurdles, To the sound of the hounds in cry. To the feast and the game and the frolic, We were but children then, - God grant, now the game's in earnest, We play our parts like men! Good-bye to the careless revel, Farewell to the fruitless past: In the roar of the fight to-morrow There'll be work for men at last. Here's a health to the fight's survivors, And here's to the men who fall! To the death that is sweet and goodly, To the sword on the soldier's pall! We're a score of men together, And one more glass we'll drain: Hands round ere our ranks be thinner; There'll be gaps ere we meet again. Here's luck in the fight to-morrow: Here's a chance of fair renown: Here's a gallant race and a stirring pace, Ere the Last Fence brings you down!