The sky is red and glows overhead,
The roar of cannon rumbles in our ears,
The First Battalion steps over the dead,
And men take flight and demons know fear.

The Eagle's claws are bared overhead,
Our steel-shod boots grind stone to dust,
The bayonet-knives are bared in each hand,
Like spearheads, through hell itself we thrust.

Our Emperor, he laughs at a pain and death,
He laughs as the battle starts afresh.
The pistols never fail in his hands,
And we are there to shield him with our flesh.

The continents shake in fear underfoot,
The city-bonfires light the sky in red,
The Emperor's Own march, like on parade,
And never turn away or face about.