Opening Solo: "These are the Days."

"Well roared, lion." —Midsummer Night's Dream.

Air—"Let me like a Soldier Fall."—from "Maritana"

These are the days when blood runs fast
In frames of men of might;
Degrees don't count if a man can "last";
Pince-nez don't serve for sight;
But muscles are big, and pulses strong,
And brains work clear and quick;
And lungs are sound, and the stride is long,
And it's easy to keep in nick;
And to see if a man be right or wrong,
You've only the sides to pick.

We are the men who scorn to yield—
Who serves, his lot is shame;
Our joy is in a stricken field
With men who play the game.
These are the days of stress and throe,
And iron brain and nerve;
Bis,—And runs luck high or runs luck low,—
No quarter to men who swerve!

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An age of rigour, toil, and fight—
We hold by courtesy
Of conquest what we claim our right,
Nor reck of chivalry.
And life is his who strikes the blow,
And death is his who falls:
Bis.—And runs luck high or runs luck low,—
No man for quarter calls!