Gently came the night besiegers,
Softly marched the twenty-seven,
When a sharp, out-standing picket
Sounded forth the note of warning,
With his damp and rusty weapon,
Blazoned forth the call of danger,
With the snapping of his musket.
Quick the camp is in commotion.
“To arms!” “To arms!” shout the Militia,
The surprised and sleepy Cornstalks.