Rimini

When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake
By the Legions' Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With myself and my shield to Rimini—
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini—)
And I’ve tramped Britain, and I’ve tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And I’ve lost Britain, and I’ve lost Gaul,
And I’ve lost Rome and, worst of all,
I’ve lost Lalage!
When you go by the Via Aurelia,
As thousands have travelled before,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw Rome anymore!
Oh dear was the sweetheart that kissed him
Dear was the mother that bore,
But his shield was picked up in the heather
And he never saw Rome anymore!
And he left Rome for Lalage’s sake,
By the Legions' Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was his to take
With himself and his shield to Rimini—
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini—)
And he tramped Britain, and he tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And he lost Britain, and he lost Gaul,
And he lost Rome and, worst of all,
He lost Lalage!
When you go by the Via Aurelia
That runs from the City to Gaul,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the sword and the buckler,
He mounted his guard on the Wall,
Till the Legions elected him Cæsar,
And he rose to be master of all!
And he left Rome for Lalage’s sake,
By the Legions' Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was his to take
With himself and his shield to Rimini—
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini—)
And he tramped Britain, and he tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And he lost Britain, and he lost Gaul,
And he lost Rome and, worst of all,
He lost Lalage!
It’s twenty-five marches to Narbo,
It’s forty-five more up the Rhone,
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on the Emperor’s throne.
But whether the Eagles obey us,
Or we go to the Ravens—alone,
I’d sooner be Lalage’s lover
Than sit on the Emperor’s throne!
We’ve all left Rome for Lalage’s sake,
Down the Legions' Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was ours to take
With ourselves and our shields to Rimini—
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini—)
And we’ve tramped Britain, and we’ve tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And we’ve lost Britain, and we’ve lost Gaul,
And we’ve lost Rome and, worst of all,
We’ve lost Lalage!