There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,
And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills;
By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,
And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane;
For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,

And the grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead.

Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George,
The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.
The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers
Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers-
For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array,
And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray!

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?
Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?
Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,
With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?

Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,
When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?”

Tralára, Tralára! Now praise we the Lord,
For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!
Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die;

For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by!
"Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound
"Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground.
If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll,
We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll-
When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest,
And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.

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,

From mountain-river swift and cold;

The borders of the stormy deep,

The vales where gathered waters sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold,-

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
Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—
The footstep of a foreign lord
Profaned the soil no more.

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.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us

As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When, waking to their tents on fire,

They grasp their arms in vain,

And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem

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 band that Marion leads-
The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp-
A moment-and away,

Back to the pathless forest

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay thern down no more

Till we have driven the Briton,

Forever, from our shore.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

CARMEN BELLICOSUM

IN their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,

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,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

And the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly

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;