Chapter I: Part 1

The Silver Series of English and American Classics

BALLADS

OF

AMERICAN BRAVERY

_EDITED, WITH NOTES_

BY

CLINTON SCOLLARD

AUTHOR OF “OLD AND NEW WORLD LYRICS,” “SONGS OF SUNRISE LANDS,”
“THE HILLS OF SONG,” ETC.

SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY

NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO

COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY

PREFATORY WORD

While it has been, in the main, the purpose of the Editor to include in the present collection only such poems as commemorate some signal act of valor historically verified, it has seemed best to widen the scope sufficiently to admit a few selections that must have been excluded were the lines rigorously drawn. To appeal to the student of American history has been the primary aim; yet, inasmuch as the chord played upon--that of heroism--finds a responsive echo in every heart, it is hoped that the book may prove of interest to the general public as well. Though there has been no attempt at an exhaustive selection, a natural desire to cover as wide a field as possible has led to the admission of some ballads of lesser literary value, though it is believed that none will be found that has not sufficient merit to warrant its presence.

The Editor desires to make grateful acknowledgment to Houghton, Mifflin & Company, Harper & Brothers, Charles Scribner’s Sons, The Funk & Wagnalls Company, The J. B. Lippincott Company, The Century Company, Herbert S. Stone & Company, John Lane, The Lothrop Publishing Company, and the _Youth’s Companion_, for courtesies extended, and also to thank most heartily the various authors whose work is included, or those representing them, for their cordial coöperation.

CLINTON, NEW YORK, March, 1900.

CONTENTS

IN TIME OF STRIFE

PAGE

1. Paul Revere’s Ride _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 3 2. Mary Butler’s Ride _Benjamin Franklin Taylor_ 7 3. The Surprise at Ticonderoga _Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury_ 13 4. Montgomery at Quebec _Clinton Scollard_ 17 5. The Maryland Battalion _John Williamson Palmer_ 19 6. Arnold at Stillwater _Thomas Dunn English_ 21 7. The Yankee Man-of-War _Anonymous_ 27 8. The Ride of Jennie M’Neal _Will Carleton_ 29 9. The Song of Marion’s Men _William Cullen Bryant_ 34 10. How We Burned the “Philadelphia” _Barrett Eastman_ 36 11. The “Shannon” and the “Chesapeake” _Thomas Tracy Bouvé_ 40 12. The Fight of the “Armstrong” Privateer _James Jeffrey Roche_ 43 13. The Men of the Alamo _James Jeffrey Roche_ 48 14. The Fight at the San Jacinto _John Williamson Palmer_ 51 15. Monterey _Charles Fenno Hoffman_ 54 16. The Defense of Lawrence _Richard Realf_ 55 17. Blood Is Thicker than Water _Wallace Rice_ 57 18. Bethel _Augustine Joseph Hickey 19. The Charge by the Ford _Thomas Dunn English_ 64 20. The Little Drummer _Richard Henry Stoddard_ 66 21. The Cumberland _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 70 22. Johnston at Shiloh _Fleming James_ 72 23. The River Fight _Henry Howard Brownell_ 77 24. Kearny at Seven Pines _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 81 25. The Unknown Hero _William Gordon McCabe_ 83 26. Barbara Frietchie _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 84 27. The Eagle of Corinth _Henry Howard Brownell_ 87 28. Ready _Phœbe Cary_ 90 29. The Battle of Charleston Harbor _Paul Hamilton Hayne_ 91 30. Keenan’s Charge _George Parsons Lathrop_ 93 31. The Hero of the Gun _Margaret Junkin Preston_ 97 32. An Incident of War _Maurice Thompson_ 99 33. The Black Regiment _George Henry Boker_ 101 34. Greencastle Jenny _Helen Gray Cone_ 104 35. John Burns of Gettysburg _Bret Harte_ 106 36. High Tide at Gettysburg _Will Henry Thompson_ 11O 37. Thomas at Chickamauga _Kate Brownlee Sherwood_ 113 38. The Smallest of the Drums _James Buckham_ 117 39. Little Giffen _Francis Orrery Ticknor_ 119 40. Ulric Dahlgren _Kate Brownlee Sherwood_ 121 41. Farragut _William Tuckey Meredith_ 122 42. Lee to the Rear _John Randolph Thompson_ 124 43. Craven _Henry Newbolt_ 128 44. Gracie of Alabama _Francis Orrery Ticknor_ 129 45. The Ballad of a Little Fun _Maurice Thompson_ 131 46. Sheridan’s Ride _Thomas Buchanan Reid_ 133 47. Down the Little Big Horn _Francis Brooks_ 135 48. The Bond of Blood _Will Henry Thompson_ 138 49. A Ballad of Manila Bay _Charles George Douglas Roberts_141 50. Dewey at Manila _Robert Underwood Johnson_ 143 51. The Men of the “Merrimac” _Clinton Scollard_ 147 52. The Charge at Santiago _William Hamilton Hayne_ 149 53. Spain’s Last Armada _Wallace Rice_ 150 54. Ballad of Paco Town _Clinton Scollard_ 155 55. Peace Hath Her Victories _Wallace Rice_ 161 56. In the Tunnel _Bret Harte_ 163 57. The Ballad of Calnan’s Christmas _Helen Gray Cone_ 165 58. How He Saved St. Michael’s _Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury_ 167 59. The Ride of Collin Graves _John Boyle O’Reilly_ 171 60. Jim Bludso _John Hay_ 174 61. George Nidiver _Anonymous_ 176 62. A Man’s Name _Richard Realf_ 178 63. The Man Who Rode to Conemaugh _John Eliot Bowen_ 180 64. Johnny Bartholomew _Thomas Dunn English_ 182 65. His Name _Margaret Junkin Preston_ 185 66. Old Braddock _John Vance Cheney_ 186 67. In Apia Bay _Charles George Douglas Roberts_189 NOTES 193

BALLADS OF AMERICAN BRAVERY

_Great Greece hath her Thermopylæ;_
_Stout Switzerland her Tell;_
_The Scot his Wallace heart--and we_
_Have saints and shrines as well._
_Richard Realf._

IN TIME OF STRIFE

1

PAUL REVERE’S RIDE

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said, “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The _Somerset_, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in the village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)

2

MARY BUTLER’S RIDE

Ebenezer Eastman, of Gilmanton, is dead;--
At least they had him buried full fifty years ago;--
The gray White Mountain granite they set above his head,
With some graven words upon it, to let the neighbors know
Precisely what it was that made the grasses grow
So wondrous rank and strong: How they rippled in the wind,
As if nobody ever died, nobody ever sinned!
To that old Bible name of his what eloquence was lent
When its owner marched to battle,--not a ration, not a tent,
Nor a promise nor a sign of a Continental cent!
Ho, Ebenezer Eastman! We’ll call the roll again,--
Ho, dead and gone Lieutenant of the old-time Minute-Men!

Plowing land for turnips, with awkward Buck and Bright,
Was stout Lieutenant Eastman, one lovely day in June;
He “hawed” them to the left and he “geed” them to the right,
And they slowly came about in the lazy summer noon,
He humming to himself the fragment of a tune,
Which he would croon at night to the baby-boy who lay
In basswood trough becradled first, a week ago that day!

* * * * *

All at a flying gallop a rider swings in sight,
Pulls up beside the fallow and gives the view-halloo,--
His horse’s flanks are black, but his neck is foamy white:--
“Turn out, Lieutenant Eastman! There’s something else to do!
The redcoats are a-swarming! Your summer plowing’s through!”
No other word--away! And the rattling of the hoofs
Was like the rain from traveling clouds along the cabin roofs.
The plowman turned his cattle out; he saddled up the bay,
And he rallied out the wilderness upon that summer day,
And the Minute-Men of Gilmanton to Boston marched away.
About the mother? Well, she watched beside the cabin door,
And rocked the baby’s basswood boat upon the puncheon floor.

Days grew long in Gilmanton, and weeds among the corn;
The quoiting ground was grassy, and louder rang the rill;
The wrestling match was over,--the smithy was forlorn,--
The spiders in the empty door had swung their webs at will,--
The champions had gone to Bunker’s smoky Hill,
To try the quaint old-fashioned “lock” they practiced on the Green,
And such a game of tough “square hold” the world has seldom seen!
About the father? Only this;--he fought in Stark’s brigade,
On Charlestown Neck, that dusty day. A splendid mark he made;
He never flinched a single inch when British cannon played,
But foddered up an old rail fence with Massachusetts hay,
Stood out the battle at the rack, and stoutly blazed away!
Lo, through the smoky glory, that human flower-deluce,
The gray-eyed Mary Butler, Lieutenant Eastman’s wife!
Her pallid cheek and brow like a holy flag of truce,
Her heart as sweet and red as a rose’s inner life,
No murmur on her lips, nor sign of any strife.
Four days before the fight. Has the little woman heard
From anybody Boston way? Nobody--not a word!

Then up rose Mary Butler, and set her wheel at rest;
She swept the puncheon floor, she washed the cottage pride,--
The cottage pride of three weeks old, and dressed him in his best,--
She wound the clock that told the time her mother was a bride,
And porringer and spoon she deftly laid aside;
She strung a clean white apron across the window panes,
And swung the kettle from the crane, for fear of rusting rains;
Then tossed her saddle on the bay and donned her linen gown,
And took the baby on before,--no looking round or down!
Full seventy miles to Cambridge town! Bring out your civic crown!
I think ’twill fit that brow of hers who sadly smiled and said:
“We’ll _know_ about your father, boy, and who is hurt or dead!”
The maple woods that round her stand so solemn in the calm,
Up and down are swaying slowly, like a singing-master’s palm,
All together beating time,--not a soul to sing a psalm!
“There’s been a dreadful battle!”--that’s what the neighbors said,
“But when or where we cannot tell, nor who is hurt or dead.”

Rugged maples broke their ranks to let the rider by,
Fell in behind her noiseless as falls the stealthy dew;
Such heavy folds of starless dark in double shadow lie,
The slender bridle path she treads can only just show through,
And buried in the leafy miles was all the world she knew.
By muffled drum of partridge and jaunty jay-bird’s fife,
That mother made her lonely march,--that Continental wife.
She never drew the bridle rein till forty miles were done,
And on her ended journey shone the second setting sun,
And round the Bay, like battle clock, tolled out the evening-gun.
Talk not of pomps and tournaments! If only you had seen
The royal ride from Gilmanton, the halt at Cambridge Green!

Dust-bedimmed and weary, with a look as though she smiled,
She melted through the haze of the summer’s smoky gold!
Some master’s faded picture of Madonna and the Child,
Born full a thousand years ago, and never growing old!
She heard old Putnam’s kennel growl, the bells of Charlestown tolled;
She saw the golden day turn gray within an ashen shroud,
That showed the scarlet regulars like lightning through a cloud.
Forth from the furnace and the fire Lieutenant Eastman came,--
The smell of powder in his clothes and fragrance in his fame,--
And met her bravely waiting there, who bore his boy and name!--
She from the howling wilderness--he from the hell of men,
The little woman called the roll; he called it back again!

Then lightly to the pillion the gray-eyed wife he swung,
A bundle on the saddlebow all tenderly he placed,
And, lost amid the leafy calms where cannon never rung,
Away they rode to Gilmanton, her arm around his waist,
No general’s sash of crimson silk so rarely could have graced!
Ah, Mary Butler cannot die, whatever sextons say,
While yet life’s azure pulses keep their old heroic play.

* * * * *

A million men have lingered long, a million men have died,
Who never saw a deed so grand as Mary Butler’s ride!

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TAYLOR.

3

THE SURPRISE OF TICONDEROGA

’Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing
Of every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,--
Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm,
Or chanticleer’s shrill challenge from busy farm to farm.

But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise,
Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his “Green Mountain Boys,”--
Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one,
To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington!

“My comrades,”--thus the leader spake to his gallant band,--
“The key of all the Canadas is in King George’s hand,
Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock,
Good Yankee swords--God willing--may pick his rusty lock!”

At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way,
Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray,
As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feet
To the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat.

The curtain of the darkness closed ’round them like a tent,
When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent,
They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain,
And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain.

O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills!
O bastions of old Carillon, the “Fort of Chiming Rills!”
Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay,
And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day!

In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore,
Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar;
The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake,
Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake.

Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning gray
Gave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay;
Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before,
And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more:

“Soldiers, so long united--dread scourge of lawless power!
Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour.
One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest--
To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test!

“I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill,
Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will!
There leads no pathway backward--’tis death or victory!
Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!”

From man to man a tremor ran at their captain’s word,--
(Like the “going” in the mulberry-trees that once King David heard),--
While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line,
Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine!

“Right face, my men, and forward!” Low-spoken, swift-obeyed!
They mount the slope unfaltering--they gain the esplanade!
A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate,
Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm--too late!

They swarm before the barracks--the quaking guards take flight,
And such a shout exultant resounds along the height,
As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago,
When brave Montcalm’s defenders charged on a British foe!

Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace,
To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass!
The bayonets’ lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes,
And, in tones of sudden thunder, “Surrender!” Allen cries.

“Then in whose name the summons?” the ashen lips reply.
The mountaineer’s stern visage turns proudly toward the sky,--
“In the name of great Jehovah!” he speaks with lifted sword,
“And the Continental Congress, who wait upon His word!”

Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east,
As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased,
Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws,
As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause.

Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise,
Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise,
And still, on Freedom’s roster, through all her glorious years,
Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers!

MARY ANNA PHINNEY STANSBURY.

(By special permission of the author, and of _The Youth’s Companion_.)

4

MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC

Round Quebec’s embattled walls
Moodily the patriots lay;
Dread disease within its thralls
Drew them closer day by day;
Till from suffering man to man,
Mutinous, a murmur ran.

Footsore, they had wandered far,
They had fasted, they had bled;
They had slept beneath the star
With no pillow for the head;
Was it but to freeze to stone
In this cruel icy zone?

Yet their leader held his heart,
Naught discouraged, naught dismayed;
Quelled with unobtrusive art
Those that muttered; unafraid
Waited, watchful, for the hour
When his golden chance should flower.

’Twas the death-tide of the year;
Night had passed its murky noon;
Through the bitter atmosphere
Pierced nor ray of star nor moon;
But upon the bleak earth beat
Blinding arrows of the sleet.

While the trumpets of the storm
Pealed the bastioned heights around,
Did the dauntless heroes form,
Did the low, sharp order sound.
“Be the watchword _Liberty_!”
Cried the brave Montgomery.

Here, where he had won applause,
When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe,
For a nobler, grander cause
Would he strike the fearless blow,--
Smite at Wrong upon the throne,
At Injustice giant grown.

“Men, you will not fear to tread
Where your general dares to lead!
On, my valiant boys!” he said,
And his foot was first to speed;
Swiftly up the beetling steep,
Lion-hearted, did he leap.

Flashed a sudden blinding glare;
Roared a fearsome battle-peal;
Rang the gloomy vasts of air;
Seemed the earth to rock and reel;
While adown that fiery breath
Rode the hurtling bolts of death.

Woe for him, the valorous one,
Now a silent clod of clay!
Nevermore for him the sun
Would make glad the paths of day;
Yet ’twere better thus to die
Than to cringe to tyranny!--

Better thus the life to yield,
Striking for the right and God,
Upon Freedom’s gory field,
Than to kiss Oppression’s rod!
Honor, then, for all time be
To the brave Montgomery!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

5

THE MARYLAND BATTALION

Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see,
Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;
Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall,
Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;
Prancing soldados so martial and bluff,
Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff--
But our cockades were clasped with a mother’s low prayer,
And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.

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 dike 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!” May be 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.

(By special permission of the author.)

6

ARNOLD AT STILLWATER

Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel!
Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;
Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared
Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.

Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall;
Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all!
Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried;
Then, with my rage at his treason--with pity when André died.

Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,
Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;
Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime,
Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.

Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday!
Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.
The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,
And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.

Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;
There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height;
Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;
As silent their long line of scarlet--not one of them whispered or stirred.

Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;
Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;
But onward we pressed till the order of Cilley fell full on the ear;
Then we leveled our pieces and fired them, and rushed up the slope with a cheer.

Fiercely we charged on their center, and beat back the stout grenadiers,
And wounded the brave Major Ackland, and grappled the swart cannoneers;
Five times we captured their cannons, and five times they took them again;
But the sixth time we had them we kept them, and with them a share of their men.

Our colonel who led us dismounted, high on a cannon he sprang;
Over the noise of our shouting clearly his joyous words rang;
“These are our own brazen beauties! Here to America’s cause
I dedicate each, and to freedom!--foes to King George and his laws!”

Worn as we were with the struggle, wounded and bleeding and sore,
Some stood all pale and exhausted; some lay there stiff in their gore;
And round through the mass went a murmur, that grew to a whispering clear,
And then to reproaches outspoken--“If General Arnold were here!”

For Gates, in his folly and envy, had given the chief no command,
And far in the rear some had seen him horseless and moodily stand,
Knitting his forehead in anger, gnawing his red lip in pain,
Fretting himself like a bloodhound held back from his prey by a chain.

Hark, at our right there is cheering! there is the ruffle of drums!
Here is the well-known brown charger! Spurring it madly he comes!
Learned’s brigade have espied him, rending the air with a cheer;
Woe to the terrified foeman, now that our leader is here!

Piercing the tumult behind him, Armstrong is out on his track;
Gates has dispatched his lieutenant to summon the fugitive back.
Armstrong might summon the tempest, order the whirlwind to stay,
Issue commands to the earthquake--would they the mandate obey?

Wounds, they were healed in a moment! weariness instantly gone!
Forward he pointed his sabre--led us, not ordered us on.
Down on the Hessians we thundered, he, like a madman ahead;
Vainly they strove to withstand us; raging, they shivered and fled.

On to their earthworks we drove them, shaking with ire and dismay;
There they made stand with a purpose to beat back the tide of the day.
Onward we followed, then faltered; deadly their balls whistled free.
Where was our death-daring leader? Arnold, our hope, where was he?

He? He was everywhere riding! hither and thither his form,
On the brown charger careering, showed us the path of the storm;
Over the roar of the cannon, over the musketry’s crash,
Sounded his voice, while his sabre lit up the way with its flash.

Throwing quick glances around him, reining a moment his steed--
“Brooks, that redoubt!” was his order; “let the rest follow my lead!
Mark where the smoke-cloud is parting! see where the gun-barrels glance!
Livingston, forward! On, Wesson, charge them! Let Morgan advance!”

“Forward!” he shouted, and, spurring on through the sally-port then,
Fell sword in hand on the Hessians, closely behind him our men.
Back shrank the foemen in terror; off went their forces pellmell,
Firing one Parthian volley; struck by it, Arnold, he fell.

Ours was the day. Up we raised him; spurted the blood from his knee--
“Take my cravat, boys, and bind it; I am not dead yet,” said he.
“What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,
Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?”

“General Gates sent his orders”--faltering the aid-de-camp spoke--
“You’re to return, lest some rashness--” Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:
“Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!
Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!”

Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,
Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!--
Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell--
Fell from the patriot’s heaven down to the loyalist’s hell!

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

(By special permission of the author, and of Harper and Brothers.)

7

THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR

’Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars,
And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,--
With her starboard tacks a-board, my boys, she hung upon the gale,
On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,
As gaily over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;
With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,
And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cathead.

There was no talk of shortening sail by him who walked the poop,
And under the press of her pondering jib, the boom bent like a hoop!
And the groaning waterways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,
But he only laughed as he glanced abaft at the white and silvery track.

The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore;
And that sterling light on Tusker rock, where the old bell tolls the hour,
And the beacon light that shone so bright was quenched on Waterford tower.

The nightly robes our good ship wore were her three topsails set,
The spanker and her standing jib, the spanker being fast;
“Now, lay aloft, my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!”
And royals and topgallant sails were quickly on each mast.

What looms upon the starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?
’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees;
For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four
We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spoke our noble captain then, as a shot ahead of us passed,
“Haul snug your flowing courses, lay your topsail to the mast!”
The Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,
And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.

“Out, booms! Out, booms!” our skipper cried, “Out, booms, and give her sheet!”
And the swiftest keel that ever was launched shot ahead of the British fleet.
And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stunsails hoisting away,
Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer, just at the break of day.

ANONYMOUS.

8

THE RIDE OF JENNIE M’NEAL

Paul Revere was a rider bold--
Well has his valorous deed been told;
Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one--
Often has it been dwelt upon.
But why should men do all the deeds
On which the love of a patriot feeds?
Hearken to me, while I reveal
The dashing ride of Jennie M’Neal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found
In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground,
In a cottage, cosy, and all their own,
She and her mother lived alone.
Safe were the two, with their frugal store,
From all of the many who passed their door;
For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears,
And Jennie was large for fifteen years;
With vim her eyes were glistening,
Her hair was the hue of the blackbird’s wing;
And while the friends who knew her well
The sweetness of her heart could tell,
A gun that hung on the kitchen wall
Looked solemnly quick to heed her call;
And they who were evil-minded knew
Her nerve was strong and her aim was true.
So all kind words and acts did deal
To generous, black-eyed Jennie M’Neal.

One night when the sun had crept to bed,
And rain clouds lingered overhead,
And sent their surly drops for proof
To drum a tune on the cottage roof,
Close after a knock at the outer door,
There entered a dozen dragoons or more.
Their red coats, stained by the muddy road,
That they were British soldiers showed;
The captain his hostess bent to greet,
Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat;
We will pay you well, and, if may be,
This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea;
Then we must dash ten miles ahead,
To catch a rebel colonel abed.
He is visiting home, as doth appear;
We will make his pleasure cost him dear.”
And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal,
Close-watched the while by Jennie M’Neal.

For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near
Had been her true friend, kind and dear;
And oft, in her younger days, had he
Right proudly perched her upon his knee,
And told her stories many a one
Concerning the French war lately done.
And oft together the two friends were,
And many the arts he had taught to her;
She had hunted by his fatherly side,
He had shown her how to fence and ride;
And once had said, “The time may be,
Your skill and courage may stand by me.”
So sorrow for him she could but feel,
Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

With never a thought or a moment more,
Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door,
Ran out where the horses were left to feed,
Unhitched and mounted the captain’s steed,
And down the hilly and rock-strewn way
She urged the fiery horse of gray.
Around her slender and cloakless form
Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm;
Secure and tight, a gloveless hand
Grasped the reins with stern command;
And full and black her long hair streamed
Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed.
And on she rushed for the colonel’s weal,
Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

Hark!--From the hills, a moment mute,
Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit;
And a cry from the foremost trooper said,
“Halt, or your blood be on your head!”
She heeded it not, and not in vain
She lashed the horse with the bridle rein.
So into the night the gray horse strode;
His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road;
And the highborn courage that never dies
Flashed from the rider’s coal-black eyes.
The pebbles flew from that fearful race;
The raindrops grasped at her glowing face.
“On, on, brave beast!” with loud appeal,
Cried eager, resolute Jennie M’Neal.

“Halt!” once more came the voice of dread;
“Halt, or your blood be on your head!”
Then, no one answering to the calls,
Sped after her a volley of balls.
They passed her in their rapid flight,
They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right;
But, rushing o’er the slippery track,
She sent no token of answer back,
Except a silvery laughter-peal,
Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

So on she rushed, at her own good will,
Through wood and valley, o’er plain and hill;
The gray horse did his duty well,
Till all at once he stumbled and fell,
Himself escaping the nets of harm,
But flinging the girl with a broken arm.
Still undismayed by the numbing pain,
She clung to the horse’s bridle rein,
And gently bidding him to stand,
Petted him with her able hand;
Then sprung again to the saddlebow,
And shouted, “One more trial now!”
As if ashamed of the heedless fall
He gathered his strength once more for all,
And, galloping down a hillside steep,
Gained on the troopers at every leap;
No more the high-bred steed did reel,
But ran his best for Jennie M’Neal.

They were a furlong behind, or more,
When the girl burst through the colonel’s door,
Her poor arm hanging helpless with pain,
And she all drabbled and drenched with rain,
But her cheeks as red as firebrands are,
And her eyes as bright as a blazing star;
And shouted, “Quick, be quick, I say!
They come! they come!--away! away!”
Then sunk on the rude white floor of deal,
Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M’Neal.

The startled colonel sprung, and pressed
The wife and children to his breast,
And turned away from his fireside bright,
And glided into the stormy night;
Then soon and safely made his way
To where the patriot army lay.
But first he bent, in the dim firelight,
And kissed the forehead broad and white,
And blessed the girl who had ridden so well
To keep him out of a prison cell.
The girl roused up at the martial din,
Just as the troopers came rushing in,
And laughed, e’en in the midst of a moan,
Saying, “Good sirs, your bird has flown.
’Tis I who have scared him from his nest;
So deal with me now as you think best.”
But the grand young captain bowed, and said,
“Never you hold a moment’s dread.
Of womankind I must crown you queen:
So brave a girl I have never seen.
Wear this gold ring as your valor’s due,
And when peace comes I will come for you.”
But Jennie’s face an arch smile wore,
As she said, “There’s a lad in Putnam’s corps
Who told me the same, long time ago;
You two would never agree, I know.
I promised my love to be true as steel,”
Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

WILL CARLETON.

(By special permission of the author, and of Harper and Brothers.)

9

SONG OF MARION’S MEN

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,
And 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 kindest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

10

HOW WE BURNED THE “PHILADELPHIA”

_By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore_
_He would scourge us from the seas;_
_Yankees should trouble his soul no more--_
_By the Prophet’s beard the Bashaw swore,_
_Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,_
_And troubled his soul no more._

The moon was dim in the western sky,
And a mist fell soft on the sea,
As we slipped away from the _Siren_ brig
And headed for Tripoli.

Behind us the hulk of the _Siren_ lay,
Before us the empty night;
And when again we looked behind
The _Siren_ was gone from our sight.

Nothing behind us, and nothing before,
Only the silence and rain,
As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows
And cast us up again.

Through the rain and the silence we stole along,
Cautious and stealthy and slow,
For we knew the waters were full of those
Who might challenge the _Mastico_.

But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost
Of the ship we had come to see,
Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame
Rolling uneasily.

And as we looked, the mist drew up
And the moon threw off her veil,
And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight,
Ghostly and drear and pale.

Then spoke Decatur low and said:
“To the bulwarks’ shadow all!
But the six who wear the Tripoli dress
Shall answer the sentinel’s call.”

“What ship is that?” cried the sentinel.
“No ship,” was the answer free;
“But only a Malta ketch in distress
Wanting to moor in your lee.

“We have lost our anchor, and wait for day
To sail into Tripoli town,
And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night,
So cast a cable down.”

Then close to the frigate’s side we came,
Made fast to her unforbid--
Six of us bold in the heathen dress,
The rest of us lying hid.

But one who saw us hiding there
“_Americano!_” cried.
Then straight we rose and made a rush
Pellmell up the frigate’s side.

Less than a hundred men were we,
And the heathen were twenty score;
But a Yankee sailor in those old days
Liked odds of one to four.

And first we cleaned the quarter deck,
And then from stern to stem
We charged into our enemies
And quickly slaughtered them.

All around was the dreadful sound
Of corpses striking the sea,
And the awful shrieks of dying men
In their last agony.

The heathen fought like devils all,
But one by one they fell,
Swept from the deck by our cutlasses
To the water, and so to hell.

Some we found in the black of the hold,
Some to the fo’c’s’le fled,
But all in vain; we sought them out
And left them lying dead;
Till at last no soul but Christian souls
Upon that ship was found;
The twenty score were dead, and we,
The hundred, safe and sound.

And, stumbling over the tangled dead,
The deck a crimson tide,
We fired the ship from keel to shrouds
And tumbled over the side.

Then out to sea we sailed once more,
With the world as light as day,
And the flames revealed a hundred sail
Of the heathen there in the bay.

All suddenly the red light paled,
And the rain rang out on the sea;
Then--a dazzling flash, a deafening roar,
Between us and Tripoli!

Then, nothing behind us, and nothing before,
Only the silence and rain;
And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows
And cast us up again.

_By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore_
_He would scourge us from the seas;_
_Yankees should trouble his soul no more--_
_By the Prophet’s beard the Bashaw swore._
_Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,_
_And troubled his soul no more._

BARRETT EASTMAN.

(By special permission of the author.)

11

THE “SHANNON” AND THE “CHESAPEAKE”

The captain of the _Shannon_ came sailing up the bay,
A reeling wind flung out behind his pennons bright and gay;
His cannon crashed a challenge; the smoke that hid the sea
Was driven hard to windward and drifted back to lee.

The captain of the _Shannon_ sent word into the town:
Was Lawrence there, and would he dare to sail his frigate down
And meet him at the harbor’s mouth and fight him, gun to gun,
For honor’s sake, with pride at stake, until the fight was won?

Now, long the gallant Lawrence had scoured the bitter main;
With many a scar and wound of war his ship was home again;
His crew, relieved from service, were scattered far and wide,
And scarcely one, his duty done, had lingered by his side.

But to refuse the challenge? Could he outlive the shame?
Brave men and true, but deadly few, he gathered to his fame.
Once more the great ship _Chesapeake_ prepared her for the fight,--
“I’ll bring the foe to town in tow,” he said, “before to-night!”

High on the hills of Hingham that overlook the shore,
To watch the fray and hope and pray, for they could do no more,
The children of the country watched the children of the sea
When the smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.

“How can he fight,” they whispered, “with only half a crew,
Though they be rare to do and dare, yet what can brave men do?”
But when the _Chesapeake_ came down, the Stars and Stripes on high,
Stilled was each fear, and cheer on cheer resounded to the sky.

The captain of the _Shannon_, he swore both long and loud:
“This victory, where’er it be, shall make two nations proud!
Now onward to this victory or downward to defeat!
A sailor’s life is sweet with strife, a sailor’s death as sweet.”

And as when lightnings rend the sky and gloomy thunders roar,
And crashing surge plays devil’s dirge upon the stricken shore,
With thunder and with sheets of flame the two ships rang with shot,
And every gun burst forth a sun of iron crimson-hot.

And twice they lashed together and twice they tore apart,
And iron balls burst wooden walls and pierced each oaken heart.
Still from the hills of Hingham men watched with hopes and fears,
While all the bay was torn that day with shot that rained like tears.

The tall masts of the _Chesapeake_ went groaning by the board;
The _Shannon’s_ spars were weak with scars when Broke cast down his sword:
“Now woe,” he cried, “to England, and shame and woe to me!”
The smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.

“Give them one breaking broadside more,” he cried, “before we strike!”
But one grim ball that ruined all for hope and home alike
Laid Lawrence low in glory, yet from his pallid lip
Rang to the land his last command: “Boys, don’t give up the ship!”

* * * * *

The wounded wept like women when they hauled her ensign down.
Men’s cheeks were pale as with the tale from Hingham to the town
They hurried swift in silence, while toward the eastern night
The victor bore away from shore and vanished out of sight.

Hail to the great ship _Chesapeake_! Hail to the hero brave
Who fought her fast, and loved her last, and shared her sudden grave!
And glory be to those that died, for all eternity;
They lie apart at the mother-heart of God’s eternal sea.

THOMAS TRACY BOUVÉ.

(By special permission of the author, and of _The Youth’s Companion_.)

12

THE FIGHT OF THE “ARMSTRONG” PRIVATEER

Tell the story to your sons
Of the gallant days of yore,
When the brig of seven guns
Fought the fleet of seven score,
From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night--
Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight
In the harbor of Fayal the Azore.

Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal:
One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall;
Nelson’s valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are,
Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar.
Lord Dundonald and his fleet at Jamaica far away
Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.
There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast
In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast;
There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring
Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!

At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide
Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,
And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town
And the privateer that lay close inside;
Came the eighteen-gun _Carnation_, and the _Rota_, forty-four,
And the triple-decked _Plantagenet_ an Admiral’s pennon bore;
And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller,
And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore.

Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: “Have no fear;
They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here
As if fifty stout armadas stood to shelter you from harm,
For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm.”
But the privateersman said, “Well we know the Englishmen,
And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen.
Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end,
And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then.”

“Seize the pirate where she lies!” cried the English Admiral:
“If the Portuguese protect her, all the worse for Portugal!”
And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray,
Speeding shoreward where the _Armstrong_, grim and dark and ready, lay.
Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning,
On they came in splendid silence, till a cable’s length away.
Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico’s thousand echoes woke;
And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay.

Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again,
And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men;
And he gave the word “No quarter!” and he sent them forth to smite.
Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might!
Heaven helped the little _Armstrong_ in her hour of bitter need;
God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid.