The flint miss’d fire, and Allen rush’d,
And wrench’d it from its place.
The sentry dodg’d, and darted down
A passage through the mound.[17]
In pour’d our men; you might have thought
The sentry would be drown’d.
Swift, one by one, by Allen led,
They plung’d along the gloom:
No fear of those who, just beyond,
Might make the place their tomb.