An' many's the time he's told me,
Settin' here in this very cheer,
Of the fust time he shouldered thet musket,
In the Continental year.
How out in the field a-mowin',
He seed the bay'nets glance,
An' ran fer his gun with a lighter heart
Than ever he went to a dance.
Jest as he was,—in his shirt-sleeves
(Fer the day was warm and bright),
An' no hat,—but shoulderin' his musket,
Gret Gran'f'ther went to the fight.
An' thar upon Bunker hillside,
Whar the smoke hung thick an' gray,
He went a-gunnin' fer redcoats,
As you'd go fer sparrers to-day.
Hey! but the balls were whistlin'!
An' the flashes kem thick an' fast;
But whose-ever musket hed fust word,
Gret Gran'f'ther's hed the last.
Then a gunner was shot beside him,
Thet handled a six-pound gun,
An' they called fer a man to tend her;
An' Gran'f'ther said he was one.
"I ain't never fired a gun," said he,
"But I'll do my prideful best;
An' ef all you want is a man, Colonel,
Mebbe I'm as good as the rest."
An' I reckon he was! fer he stood thar,
An' fired thet six-pound gun,
Till every redcoat within his range
Hed either dropped or run.
Then all of a suddent thar kem a crack,
A flash an' a twinge an' a thrill,
An' Gran'f'ther's right arm dropped by his side,
An' hung thar, limp an' still.