What yearning strikes the hearts of men,

That peasants into soldiers rend,

Which neither golden hay nor bale,

Can alter course of time which hath done past,

Come snow, come rain, come drought, come pain,

The soldier crumples not at tests of strength,

But solely in the face of death itself,

Doth warriors of the king begin to fade,

And hands begin to tremble at the sight,

Of something greater than their cause of life,

The tolling bell strikes terror in their souls,

For they know that all remaining is a grain,

Of sand before the hour glass comes to end