A compass was set, that infallible guide;
At sunrise it pointed the way,
When the father and friend, alert by his side,
Made a silent, complete survey.
While they searched through the wood some fragments were found,
Torn threads of a girl’s scarlet shawl,
Lying hither and yon on the virgin ground—
Faint hope of success was all.
Now at length a full score of Tories is spied,
At the mouth of their cave with guns—