<--
The King, with half the East at heel, was Marched from lands of Morning.
His fighters drank the rivers up, their spears benight the air.
And he that stands will die for naught, and home there's no returning.
Those Spartans, on the sea-wet rocks, sat down and combed their hair.


The King, with half the East at heel, was Marched from lands of Morning.
His fighters drank the rivers up, their spears were raised to harm.
Yet they that stayed and bravely fought set hearts forever-burning.
Those Spartans, by the sea-wet rocks, stood fast and kept their arms.