Hark! the impatient dogs of war,
Growling, baying from afar,
The royal ban-dogs, bound and strain
To slip the leash or snap the chain.
The scent lies strong, and staunch and fleet,
With instinct true, the bloody feet
Of murderous War they seek to trace,
Till Europe's broad and tranquil face,
With wounds and blood, and burning tears,
Mangled, deformed, and soiled, appears.
The Austrian bloodhound whets his fangs,
His war steeds neigh, his armour clangs;
His marching myriads shake the ground,
And doubt and terror hover round.
His savage muzzle yet is wet
With Magyar blood. When I forget
Thee, gallant Hungary, may my name
Become a mark for hate and shame.
The Imperial hound, he first gave tongue
When Cherbourg's forts with viva's rung-
When yelled the pack, when colonels stood
And licked their chops at thoughts of blood.
Down, down ye dogs, will nought allay
Your thirst for blood? Away, away;
Balls, hunts, reviews, are harmless things
Compared with war-the game of kings.
Victor, God grant thou prove thy name!
Alas, good dog! on thee the blame
They cast of all these warlike coils;
For thou wouldst rend the despot's toils
That hold the Lombard's writhing form,
But Hapsburg's demon rides the storm.
Alone, thou wield'st nor spell nor charm
Of power to break his red right arm.
Britannia, on her island rock,
Stands armed and watching for the shock.
If shock must come, heaven scatter far
The thunder-cloud, the storm of war!