Lay of the Olden Time, A

The warrior came from the tented field 
     In the pride of his young renown, 
He hung on the bough his battered shield, 
     And flung his helmet down;
His dinted sword was cast aside, 
     And he loosed his steel-liked vest, 
And gazed awhile with a warrior's pride,
     On the scars that marked his breast.

"Farewell, my sword!" said the warrior then,
      “Thou hast served me well and long
In the strife of lion-hearted men, 
     In the fierce and mingled throng;
And where thy blade hath flashed on high
     Red blood bath flowed like wine,
On the sunny fields of Italy, 
     And the plains of Palestine."

Bright Summer came, and the Sun-God's eye
     Locked down on a quiet spot,
And silvered the streams that murmured by 
     A sweet vine-covered cot.
That rot was the home of love and joy – 
     There the warrior clasped his bride,
And the father gazed on his fair-haired boy 
     With all a father's pride.

Still hangs his shield on the olden bough, 
     And his casque is flung beneath, 
And he tastes a purer pleasure now 
     Than he found on the field of death.
A prattling child and a happy wife
     Beguile the soldier's cares —
No more he pants for the bloody strife;
     His love — his heart is theirs,