XV. Our sweethearts spun the frocks they wore, Before their wheels upon the floor They stepped as lightly evermore As belles of France Who wander from their native shore To skip and dance.
XVI. Thus Eastern maids, whose vernal bloom In Homer’s verse can ne’er consume, Assumed the distaff and the loom, With cheerful hands; Their fame is like a sweet perfume Of their own lands.
XVII. But to our theme—too long delayed: In Sabbath costume now arrayed, My hat, a gift, of oat-straw braid, My kerchief white, I started as began to fade The western light.
XVIII. I found it hard my thoughts to rally, Love’s heaven appeared a little squally, But on the road I made no dally,— My heart was jumping: You would have vowed it beat to jelly, To have heard it thumping.
XIX. The whip-poor-will was on the wing, And “whip-poor-Pete” he seemed to sing, Yet what such plaguy thought could bring To Peter Wimple? I gave my head a manly swing, At whim so simple.
XX. The waters of my own loved stream— The Hudson—shone with silvery gleam, And in the moon’s subduing beam The signs of war (Whose glory was my topmost dream) Glittered afar.
XXI. “Those were the times that tried men’s souls;”— The blazing cannon’s thunder rolls Around the hills; no church bell tolls The soldier’s fall; He passes to the goal of goals In crimson pall.
XXII. My father and my elder brother Their martial ardour could not smother, So, bade adieu to home and mother, And rushed to battle; They fought, alas! ’gainst one another, Like men of mettle.
XXIII. In Carleton’s ranks my father stood, A loyal man of stubborn mood; My brother—for his country’s good— Led on by Green— The routed foe with shouts pursued And weapons keen.
XXIV. Pardon, dear folk, this slight digression, Too grave to stamp a gay impression; Old men forget themselves in session As journals tell ye: But hearken now a full confession Of what befel me.