The Old Guard by John Henry Boner Lyrics

Summer is routed from her rosy plains,
The splendid queen with colors flying fled
Far to the south, leaving her legions dead
Upon the fields all in the dismal rains.
The minstrels of her camp most plaintive strains
Piped as they flew. Then vandal armies spread
About the hills their tattered tents of red
And gold and purple and their gaudy trains
Usurped the valleys, firing as they went,
Till, halted by a cordon of grim pines
That would not yield nor furl their banners green.
Wounded they fought and moaned, though wellnigh spent.
With blood-drops trickling down their chevron vines
They fought, and stood—the Old Guard of their queen.