"Forward!" sounded Sergeant's cry,
From clogged and bloody trenches rise,
Three thousand strong men,
Fear and fire in bloodshot eyes.

Cannon's thunder and rifle's fire,
Beat and tore and ripped,
Forward brave men marched unerring,
N'er to fall to mulling guns,
Or to culling fire.

Three thousand brave and strong,
United for the fight,
Carried on, carried on.

"Bayonets!" the Sergeants call,
Shining pikes of bloody steel to pierce the traitor's flanks,
Five hundred already dead.

Brother's cry and father's sigh,
But none then did stop,
For the Guard must force that traitor's line,
Back this one last time.

"Bayonets!" the Sergeants cry,
Shining pikes of bloody steel to pierce the traitor's flanks
Fifteen hundred dead.

The Guard meets it's fallen foe,
Twisted and debased,
Rifle's fire sounding higher,
Pounding like that of drums.

"Bayonets!" the Sergeants wail,
A pitiful death-moan,
For while the Traitor's line did break that day,
Three thousand did not come home.

Fade away,
Brave three thousand.