To arms! To arms! Arise thou stricken knave! For merry mischief summons thee from rest; Arise! Arise! The battle thou dost crave, Hast struck thy heart like thunder in thy breast. Put on the silken cloak embossed with gold, Raise up that sword, equip the heavy shield; Throw off thy weary battle-scars of old, Onwards to war, and never shall ye yield! Advance! Advance! Thy nemesis appears, Wade thru the lesser men, brush them aside; With battle drums a-ringing in your ears, No friend or foe will tarry e'er thy stride; Fear not the daggered eyes, the poisoned glance -- "Perchance my lady, would ye care to dance?"