To make the British wince. Word followed word,
Till I, who could not help but hear their gibes,
Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole.
To-morrow night a large detachment leaves
Fort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men,
With some dragoons, artillery, and a train
Of baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, go
To fall upon Fitzgibbon by surprise,
Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek.
Mr. Secord. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple!
Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now—
Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?
I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy—
Would give my life for thy prosperity—
Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevail
Without one thrust?