The Buckeyes came down like the wolf on the prey,
And his cohorts were gleaming in scarlet and gray;
And the sheen of their helmets was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Happy Valley.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Paterno spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Columbus are loud in their pack,
And the idols are broke in the temple of WHAC;
And the might of the Buckeye, unsmote by the Nittany claw,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the JoePa.