The field has been set,
The masters play their game,
Men at the ready;
Their lives forever changed.
On and on, they march,
The drummer beats his drum,
The flag is up ahead,
The War has now begun.
As the time grows near,
The men, they start to sweat,
Yet as their hearts are pounding,
The Masters place their bets.
Now on the field of honor,
Their hearts have not grown cold,
The battle cries are heard
As they march, so bold.
And as they
see the guns,
Cannon balls afire,
They stand at the ready
Like the man they all admire.
He sits on his horse,
With a saber at his belt,
With the British flag up yonder
His hat a beaver pelt.
“Charge!” he yells,
At the top of his lungs,
As the Calvary races
With victory on their tongues.
The horse’s hooves,
Like a thundering storm,
In the distance
The sound of a horn.
In the end,
The blood’s been shed,
The general’s body
Now lies there, dead
The solders marched,
On and on,
Only to see
Over half of them gone.
Was it too much?
Is it too much to pay?
To help their families,
See another day?
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