Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. - Alfred Tennyson

Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do or die.

There's not to reason why,
There's but to do and die

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die

Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd,
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word
She shook the world.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
and slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me.