When I clutch’d your hand it was not with terror, But suddenly pouring about me here on every side, And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran, And where tents are pitch’d, and wherever you see south and south-east and south-west, Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, And along the shores, in mire (now fill’d over) came again and suddenly raged, As eighty-five years a-gone no mere parade receiv’d with applause of friends, But a battle which I took part in myself⁠—aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it, Walking then this hilltop, this same ground.