The Little Green Soldiers Are Here At Last, With Their Waving Blades And Spears; And Across The Hills They Are Marching Fast With The Drill Of A Thousand Years: And I Wave Afar, And I Shout, Hurrah! Till I Hear Their Echoing Cheers. A Bonnie Prince Is At Their Head, And His Love The Legions Know: For He Gives Them Rest Where The Twigs Are Red At The Hedges Cool In A Row: And Afoot Are They Soon To A Birdlike Tune On The Northward March To Go. Oh, I Am Leal To The Marching Men, To My Bonnie Prince I'm True; For He Tells Me The Way To His Tented Glen, And The Secret Password Too: And He Sets In My Hair A Blossom To Wear, Like His Own Good Horsemen Do. Then I Will Follow On All The Day Where The Bonnie Prince Has Led, Till We Drive The Winter Foeman Away And Throne My Prince Instead: And Sing Willaloo! With The Birds, Willaloo! For The Winter King Is Dead.