Explore "The Fyghtynge Seventh" by Ambrose Bierce on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It is the gallant Seventh -- / It fyghteth faste and free! / God wot the where it fyghteth / I ne desyre to be.
The Gonfalon it flyeth, / Seeming a Flayme in Sky; / The Bugel loud yblowen is, / Which sayeth, Doe and dye!
And (O good Saints defende us / Agaynst the Woes of Warr) / Drawn Tongues are flashing deadly / To smyte the Foeman sore!
With divers kinds of Riddance / The smoaking Earth is wet, / And all aflowe to seaward goe / The Torrents wide of Sweat!
The Thunder of the Captens, / And eke the Shouting, mayketh / Such horrid Din the Soule within / The boddy of me quayketh!
Who fyghteth the bold Seventh? / What haughty Power defyes? / Their Colonel 'tis they drubben sore, / And dammen too his Eyes!