ASHBY by Arthur Louis Peticolas
Silver clear above the river, Hear the bugle calling! Through the forest by the river, O'er the hills and o'er the river, Shades of night are falling; While the dusky echoes waking, Airy, fairy music making -- Ashby's bugle calling! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's bugle calling. Wakeful pickets by the river, Keeping watch and ward; Soldiers sleeping by the river, By the rapid, rushing river, On the velvet sward; 'Neath the stars of midnight gleaming, Stonewall's army peaceful dreaming, Ashby's keeping guard. Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's keeping guard. Loud and clear above the river, Hear the rifles ringing! Flaming guns that set aquiver All the echoes by the river, Songs of death are singing; Through the raging fight, and after, Hears the foe, like mocking laughter, Ashby's bugle ringing! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's bugle ringing. Well the Valley, well the river, Knew the silver tone; Knew the steeds whose hoof beats ever Woke the echoes by the river. White, and black, and roan Were the steeds of valiant mettle, Were the steeds that bore to battle Ashby's self alone! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's self alone. But no more beside the river Ashby's steeds career; And no more the rushing river, Hill and vale and rushing river, Ashby's bugle hear; Nevermore in charge or rally Wakes the echoes of the Valley Ashby's bugle clear! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! That we loved so dear. In a sunshine guilded meadow Fell that battle day; Ashby formed us in the shadow Of a wood; below the meadow Flower spangled lay; While beyond, with pomp and daring, Wyndham came with trumpets blaring, Charging to the fray! Futile all his pomp and daring, Futile all his trumpets blaring Proved that fatal day. Three fierce volleys, then a tempest Set the echoes ringing! Sweetly clear a silver tempest, Deadly clear a silver tempest -- Ashby's bugle singing! Down we charged on Wyndham's squadrons, Charged on Wyndham's reeling squadrons. All our sabers swinging! Charged, and broke, and rode them over, Stained with blood the meadow clover, All our sabers swinging! Riflemen beside the meadow Swept the volleyed field; From the copse beside the meadow, Volleyed woodland by the meadow, Back our footmen reeled! Ashby spurred to lead them, crying; "Charge!" They charged, but he was lying Dead upon the field! Matchless horseman of the Valley! O loved horseman of the Valley! Dead upon the field! Sadly sweet the bugle's calling Over Ashby's bier! Soft and low the bugle's calling As the shades of night are falling. But he does not hear. Stilled forever by the river, In the Valley, by the river, Ashby's bugle clear! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! That we loved so dear.
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Last modified 16-April-2001