It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling
The Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and a cling,
It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where
The road winds down to the Delaware.
Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,
From his panting steed he gets him down—
“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”
And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.
It is five; and the beams of the western sun
Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;