Poetry Monday | Another Old One

We Lie Dieing On the Battlefield
(Yet the Cavalry Never Arrives)

We lie dieing on the battlefield
Yet the Cavalry never arrives.
One would assume that measures,
(as rare as they normally may be)
Would be deliberately taken,
To assure the survival of our Cavalry.

The hills are now immortal forts,
The smoking plains, so deep, entrenched,

The valleys run thick with Europe's blood,

The battle is lost, as God can see.

Yet, unknown to the men of this war,

Are the whereabouts of our Cavalry

O, where are they, our flaming scouts,
Who ride, so gallant, with rapiers drawn,

Upon the noblest steeds of line,

To cause even the Huns to flee.

Where are they, those proud lion-hearts

Who call themselves the Cavalry.

Perhaps this mud of mechanical war
Has slowly drowned our splendid last resort,

Perhaps they fell and choked on death,

Those men who ride so valiantly.

O, where are they, our warrior gods,

The ones we call the Cavalry.