A steed, a steed

A Steed! a steed of matchless speede!

A sword of metal keene!

Al else to noble heartes is drosse—

Al else on earth is meane.

The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,

The rowleinge of the drum,

The clangour of the trumpet lowde—

Be soundes from heaven that come.

And, oh! the thundering presse of knightes,

Whenas their war-cryes swelle,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,

And rowse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,

And don your helmes amaine;

Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call

Us to the fielde againe.

No shrewish tears shall fill our eye

When the sworde-hilt's in our hand;

Hearte-whole we'll parte, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land.

Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and puling crye;

Our buisnesse is like men to fighte,

And like to heroes, die!