“And let the others fall in line
Behind my lantern’s glare.
Beyond, Ticonderoga waits;
At morn, we breakfast there.”
Then, down the hunter’s trail, our line
Wound on as winds a snake,
And, late at night, prepared to spring,
Lay coil’d beside the lake.
“Now off,” said Allen, “north and south,
And hail each coming oar.”