All the merry kettle-drums are thudding into rhyme,

Dust is swimming dizzily down the village street,

The scabbards are clattering, the feathers nodding time,

To a clink of many horses’ shoes, a tramp of many feet.

Seven score of Cavaliers fighting for the King,

Trolling lusty stirrup-songs, clamouring for wine,

Riding with a loose rein, marching with a swing,

Beneath the blue bannerol of Rupert of the Rhine.

Hey the merry company;—the loud fifes playing—

Blue scarves and bright steel and blossom of the may,

Roses in the feathered hats, the long plumes swaying,

A king’s son ahead of them showing them the way.