In the cruel half light the lines are drawn, While the mist hangs low in the early dawn. Then a cry goes up and the colours too, And the Eight Hussars ride into view. Down through the ages, time after time, The flower of youth cutdown in their prime, Each century - death or glory. A flash of steel and the mounted Greys, Cut through the smoke and cannon haze. Musket breath and sabre blade, Tear tunic cloth and ornate braid. A reckless ride for lost ideals, Ending on the thorns of steel
Wrap the flag, sound recall, A trophy for the Mess Club wall
