Whose clashing sword had glanced the gun,
And gash’d the soldier’s head.
“Have mercy!” groan’d the wounded wretch.
Said Allen: “Drop your gun.
Hist, hist, my men! The walls are ours.
Now seize the barrack—run!”
No need to bid them! In a trice
Our boys had crown’d their race;
And closed, with shouts like thousands, round
The startled sleeping-place.[18]