There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills, Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George, Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right! The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight! When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain, And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain; When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red, And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead! "Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! how long must we wait? Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, Tralára, Tralára! Now praise we the Lord, For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by! John Williamson Palmer [1825-1906] SEVENTY-SIX WHAT heroes from the woodland sprung, When, through the fresh-awakened land, The thrilling cry of freedom rung And to the work of warfare strung The yeoman's iron hand! Hills flung the cry to hills around, And ocean-mart replied to mart, And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, Pealed far away the startling sound Into the forest's heart. Then marched the brave from rocky steep, The borders of the stormy deep, The vales where gathered waters sleep, As if the very earth again Grew quick with God's creating breath, And, from the sods of grove and glen, Rose ranks of lion-hearted men To battle to the death. The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, The fair fond bride of yestereve, And agèd sire and matron gray, Saw the loved warriors haste away, And deemed it sin to grieve. Already had the strife begun; Already blood, on Concord's plain, Along the springing grass had run, And blood had flowed at Lexington, Like brooks of April rain. That death-stain on the vernal sward William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] SONG OF MARION'S MEN [1780-1781] OUR band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Woe to the English soldiery They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, We share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The scampering of their steeds. Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our shore. William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] CARMEN BELLICOSUM In their ragged regimentals Yielding not, While the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles, From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn; And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn! Then with eyes to the front all, Stood our sires; And the balls whistled deadly, Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain! Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers; And the villainous saltpetre Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangor On our flanks; Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the bare-headed colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; |