O for a Muse of fireAscending heaven’s height—Assume the port of Mars tonight,With famine, sword, and burning flameAttending at his heels. Invicte Mars,daemon fortissime,domine furoris bell Verte nunclabores tristes,caedes furentis,ad sacra Veneris,ad vina Dionysi. This day is called the feast of Crispian.Who lives this day and comes safe homeShall stand on tiptoe at its nameAnd feel his blood rise warm again. And old men yet unborn shall say: “These wounds I hadOn Crispin’s day.” Invicte Mars,daemon fortissime,domine furoris belli Verte nuncclamorem ferri,fletum morientum,ad choros Bacchi,ad amorem sacrum. Old men forget—Yet all shall not be lost. Our names shall liveIn overflowing cups,Spoken beside the winter fireLike household words. And fathers shall teach their sonsThis story unto the world’s ending. Mars walks before us.But Bacchus waits behind. Blood becomes memory.Memory becomes song. We few,We happy few,We band of brothers— For he today that sheds his blood with meShall be my brother. Be he ne’er so vile,This day shall gentle his condition. Invicte Mars—pone ferrum tandem. Let grief become wine.Let battle become festival.Let memory become flame. Ad vina Dionysi.Ad amorem sacrum. We few.We happy few.We band of brothers.
